Orcish Vise
by Icy Mike Molson
Summary: The official policy of Tourant is to let the Khairathi tribes fight it out among each other unless they cross the border. But when two rangers find a tiny village about to be crushed by impending war, their conscience overrides the king's orders...
1. Author Note

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Author's Note

Wizards of the Coast owns the general concept of Dungeons and Dragons, from which this story was devised. However, _The New World_ and its principal kingdoms of Mardan, Urhal, Utrecht, Tourant, the Island Duchies, Arnheim, Trzebin, and Argent Forest, are mine. Likewise, the characters, while ostensibly created through the use of the Dungeons and Dragons character generation rules, are also mine. While I am not completely averse to someone requesting to use _The New World_ as a backdrop for a campaign or story, ask my permission first. Chances are you'll have my blessing; after all, I'd be interested to see what someone can do with the political and social backdrop I've created. I won't tell you anything about The New World; that's for you to find out through the stories. However, even though I thought I made it pretty obvious by page three, I will give you this one bit of information. The New World is based in the southern hemisphere. That means it gets colder as you go south, not north.

_Orcish Vise_ is the second story to take place in _The New World_ campaign setting, and is loosely connected to the story _Hounds of Winter_. However, while the two stories take place in the same general area, and the late winter directly effects both plots, this story works just as well by itself. Both stories are a continuing attempt by yours truly to write a story for each of the _One Hundred Adventure Ideas_ found on page 138 of the _Dungeon Master's Guide_, which is turning out to be quite a difficult task, especially since I still have ninety-eight to go after I finish this one…


	2. Two Rangers

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I

It was the rugged, lonely beauty of western Tourant that had inspired him to become a ranger.

Neuville sat back beneath the branches of a huge, ancient pine situated on a low cliff in the western reaches of Tourant, his breath steaming up faintly in the chilly, early spring night. A faint eastern breeze stirred through his close cropped, brown hair, bringing a faint promise of rain by the morning. Winter had only ended a week or so earlier, far later than usual, and patches of snow still survived in the shade of trees and rock faces. The days were beginning to warm quickly, but the night weather could still freeze the melting snow into patches of ice along the ridges and shadowed gorges. In the far reaches of the nation, Tourant's border stretched into the imposing, jagged peaks of the Khairathi Mountains, interspersed by thick forests of pine and spruce, deep gorges, and narrow river valleys. While eastern Tourant's population grew by leaps and bounds each year, the western reaches of the nation had only recently seen any settlement, mostly loggers in search of tall, straight pine for the massive shipyards of Stith and Lancoux. The natural beauty of the Khairathi Mountains could go unspoiled for days or even weeks at a time, and there had been occasions in the past when Neuville had traveled for almost a month without seeing any traces of human life in the wilds. The silence of a crisp, early spring night was something he cherished more than nearly anything else.

"Did I tell you about that mage Crispin was taking to Falloux?"

"Three times," Neuville grumbled, closing his steel blue eyes for a moment. Just behind him, Thierry was still poking at the tiny bed of embers left over from their cooking fire, humming a Sadeaux reel as he finished heating the miniature copper kettle set on the edge of their fire ring. The younger, ranger was probably as bright and talkative as Neuville was dour and taciturn, an odd combination that had somehow worked well enough during the two years that they had been paired together. 

"Well then, did I tell you about Alicia?" Thierry inquired, walking over to the ranger with two small wooden cups of tea in his hands. As the younger ranger ducked beneath the heavy boughs of the enormous pine, he handed one of the cups to his slightly older and far larger companion. 

"Who?" Neuville inquired, hoping that his voice indicated his complete lack of interest in the conversation.

"Alicia," Thierry reiterated, pushing his faintly long, sandy hair back from his smooth, handsome face as he knelt next to Neuville. "You know who I'm talking about. The blond that lives just west of Montcalm. François' daughter."

"Twice," Neuville said, finally remembering the name. "I thought you said she looked like a horse."

"I don't think I said _that_," Thierry said, turning to look out the valley below the cliff. "I just said she kind of had a kind of, you know, bit of… well, you've seen her. How would you describe her?"

"She looks like a horse," Neuville said flatly. Thierry shrugged.

"But she has a great personality," the younger ranger put in with a grin, holding his hands out in front of his chest.

"Thierry," Neuville said, finally turning to the younger man next to him. Thierry turned his bright blue eyes back to the older ranger. "Please. Be quiet for at least a little while. Before all the orcs down below come charging up here to kill us."

"They're bedding down for the night," Thierry said, gesturing to the valley. Far beneath the two rangers, dozens of campfires lit the east bank of the River Ondava, a narrow, fast moving river that threaded its way south through the mountains. Neuville knew the serrated crossed sword banners that flew above the tents of the orcs well enough; the Cruel Blades were one of the fiercest, most brutal tribes ever to roam the Khairathi Mountains. For two days Neuville and Thierry had been tracking the monstrous war party's movements, expecting the mountain barbarians to turn east. Tourant's steady push west to the mountains had been met by increasing raids each year from the tribes of mixed orcish and human barbarians that called the mountains their home. "With the way they snore, they wouldn't hear us if we collapsed half the cliff on them."

"You've told me about these girls over a dozen times in the past four weeks," Neuville pointed out. "Tell me again and I'll throw you down to the orcs."

"Hey, if I wasn't keeping the conversation going, we'd be sitting here in silence," Thierry said, taking a sip of his tea as he turned to his older companion.

"That's right," Neuville said, nodding in agreement. Thierry chuckled slightly.

"I am the only social scout in all of Tourant," the younger ranger concluded, dropping easily to one knee. For a long, thankfully silent moment Thierry gazed down at the campfires below them, but then he turned back to his companion once more. "I wonder why they haven't turned east yet," he asked.

"I don't know," Neuville answered, blowing slightly on his tea before taking a sip. When he said nothing further after a long moment of silence, Thierry turned back to him.

"I guess it doesn't really matter, as long as they stay out of Tourant," the younger ranger said. "But it still seems odd. They always try to head into Tourant."

"Maybe there's no one to raid in Tourant," Neuville said. "With the way winter went, loggers aren't coming out yet this year, and the ones already out here are probably out of food anyway."

"The Cruel Blades never come this far north," Thierry said. "Think they know something we don't?"

"Maybe Oleksandr is trying to conquer the mountains this year," Neuville said. "The Bloody Fist is to the north. Libor and Oleksandr have been enemies for years."

"Libor and Oleksandr fighting," Thierry said wistfully. "Imagine. If they wipe each other out, the mountains would be peaceful for years to come."

"Every time a major tribe falls, six new ones rush to take its place," Neuville muttered cynically. "How do you think the Cruel Blades got so big? They pounced on Slava when the Black Spear got beaten up by Krysztof's hobgoblin knights."

"Yeah, I know," Thierry said. "But a guy can dream, right?"

"Of course," Neuville said flatly, standing up and looking down over the fires. The ranger hesitated for a moment, then turned to his companion. "Get some sleep. I'll take first watch. Come morning, let's try to get ahead of them and make sure they're not marching on any logger settlements that crept into the mountains during the winter."

"It'll give us something to do, anyway," Thierry said, taking a final sip of his tea before tossing the rest across the rocky ground. The younger ranger started to his bedroll, but stopped for a moment and turned back to his laconic companion. "I think I'll dream about Lynette tonight. You know the one from the Western Sun?"

"You mentioned her seven times," Neuville grumbled. "Go to sleep."

"Yes, father," Thierry teased, pulling his blanket about him as he slid into his bedroll. Neuville shot a withering glance back at his younger companion for a moment, then returned to watching the orcish camp in the valley.

"Where are you going, Oleksandr?" the ranger inquired of the lights below.


	3. Starvation or War

**II**

Oleksandr the Cruel stood silently over the roughly lashed wooden table, studying the map before him. In the light of lanterns taken from Tourant settlements and handmade torches, the half orc chieftain continued to stare at the parchment unfolded on the table, a scowl spread across his roughly shaven face. A half dozen scar lines, tattooed with red and blue ink to highlight the reminders of vicious injuries or ritual carvings, stood out on his ash colored face, while his thick mane of black hair cast heavy shadows along his cheeks and forehead.

"Our scouts to the east have not found a single settlement along the border of the human kingdom," a stern, rumbling voice said from the opposite side of the table. Oleksandr looked up slowly, considering the orcs surrounding him in the dim light of his command tent. The speaker, Vlastimir, folded his arms across his mailed chest, his dark eyes showing his disappointment with the news. "The humans have suffered as much as we have. Possibly more."

"The winter has decimated the humans that lived to our west," a second orc put in. Dainis, easily the largest member of the group and Oleksandr's war chief, leaned forward over the map to point out the positions of human settlements further into the Khairathi Mountains, his heavy braid of black hair brushing the table as he did so. "They die of plague and starvation even as we speak. They offer us nothing to raid for."

"We have faced harsh winters before," Oleksandr pointed out, looking to his two pure blooded advisors. Standing behind them, Ruslan, Oleksandr's orcish half brother and bodyguard, remained silent and emotionless as he pondered the situation. 

"None this bad," Vlastimir countered, the ritual scars above his thick eyebrows standing out as white, diagonal streaks against his greenish gray forehead. "Winter wolves have chased off deer and elk. The humans have no food, and the human kingdom has withdrawn its settlements. Already I have seen our own orcs suffering from hunger."

"We have marched north for almost a week now," Dainis added. "We have followed the Ondava for eight days, and we have found nothing. Soon, Oleksandr, we must find food."

"Ruslan," Oleksandr said, turning from Dainis without responding to the war chief's challenge. Oleksandr's half brother looked up, his dark eyes invisible beneath the shadows created by his wild shock of black hair and equally thick beard. "You have been to our north. What lies ahead?"

"The Bloody Fist," Ruslan answered simply, his voice flat. Vlastimir and Dainis glanced uneasily to one another for a moment, then turned to their leader.

"You mean to attack Libor?" Vlastimir concluded, surprise evident in his voice. "In Bijelo Polje?"

"You have said yourself, there is nothing else left to raid," Oleksandr explained. "The humans have no food, Tourant has sent no one west. Winter wolves have already attacked our targets, leaving us with nothing. Bijelo Polje is our last option."

"Libor will not be easy to defeat," Dainis pointed out. "He has as many troops as we do, and the advantage of defenses."

"But we are hungry," Oleksandr countered. "And they will not know we are coming."

"Predrag," Vlastimir said. Dainis nodded in agreement. The mere mention of Predrag was enough to give any orcish tribe pause, as the old priest was known to be the favored of the One Eye and one of the most dangerous clerics in the Khairathi Mountains. Gifted with the One Eye's vision, Predrag had often been able to warn Libor in the past of assaults against the Bloody Fist. A battle as grand as one to be fought between the Cruel Blade and the Bloody Fist would not be overlooked by the brutal god of the orcs.

"Then we must move quickly," Ruslan said, taking a step from the shadows and revealing the myriad of tattoos and scars covering his face. Vlastimir turned to Oleksandr's disfigured half brother, but the chieftain spoke again before the orc could open his mouth.

"Ruslan is right," Oleksandr said. "Keep our orcs moving, and they will not complain of hunger. Leave them here to starve on this river bank, and they will turn on us. Ready your orcs. Tomorrow we move with the dawn."

______________________________________________________

"They're still heading north."

"Where are they going?" Neuville asked, watching the orcs of the Cruel Blade strike camp and continue along the banks of the Ondava. While the morning had brought fog and a damp, miserable drizzle, he could still see enough of the orcs to realize that they had no intentions of turning east to search for Tourant settlements. Standing next to him, Thierry leaned on his long bow as he watched the column begin its march.

"You said they might be going after Libor," the younger ranger commented, turning to his companion.

"That was wishful thinking," Neuville countered. He hesitated for a moment, then shook his head in confusion. "At least, I thought that's all it was. Usually they wait until summer to kill each other."

"Then we should count our blessings that we may not have to fight them this spring," Thierry said, turning back to their tiny camp to gather his belongings. Neuville continued to watch the orcish army with a puzzled expression, leaning on the long haft of the orcish double axe that he wielded. "Like I said, if they kill each other it saves us the trouble."

"We'll get ahead of them," Neuville said, standing and turning back to his partner. Thierry stopped in the middle of pulling his backpack over his shoulder.

"You were serious last night?" the younger ranger asked, dismayed.

"We'll see where they're heading," Neuville explained. "See if they are planning to attack the Bloody Fist."

"Neuville, we're outside of Tourant," Thierry pointed out, pulling his pack on and tightening his cloak to keep out the morning drizzle. "Even by the marquis' most optimistic maps, we're miles from the border. Whatever the orcs do out here isn't our business, as long as they don't turn back into Tourant."

"What if they're heading for a village somewhere along the river?" Neuville asked. "You just want to leave some town to get slaughtered by Oleksandr and his tribe?"

"We checked the map three times," Thierry reminded him. "There are no human settlements for miles in any direction. The nearest logging camp in Tourant is over sixteen miles east."

"My home wasn't on the map," Neuville said darkly, his blue eyes turning even colder. Thierry hesitated for a moment, all too aware of the fact that Neuville's family, and indeed his entire village, had been wiped out by orcish raiders years before. Even now, a decade or more later, the quiet, unhappy ranger pursued the orcs of the Khairathi Mountains with an almost religious zeal, and his magnificent, enchanted double axe had been taken in battle with an orcish barbarian leader that he had chased across twenty miles of rugged terrain.

"Okay," Thierry relented, not wanting to push his companion any further. "We'll get ahead of them. Shouldn't be too hard to do, anyway. Especially with the weather like it is."

"Then stop your chattering and let's get moving," Neuville said, picking up his own pack and double axe as he set out along the ridges. Thierry watched his partner disappear through the trees and fog for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Always in a hurry to kill an orc," the younger ranger sighed, taking off after his companion.

______________________________________________________

It was midday before Neuville finally came to a stop, pausing for breath under the bare limbs of an enormous, long dead spruce on an otherwise bare ridge. Thierry stopped a few paces behind his partner, watching as the older ranger gazed down over the raging torrent of the River Ondava as it tore its way through the mountains. With a steady, soaking rain falling from the heavy clouds overhead, Thierry was content to stay under the cover of the thick pine and spruce growing only a few dozen yards from the rocky plateau as his companion scanned the valley.

"Did we get ahead of them yet?" Thierry inquired, leaning against one of the trees to catch his own breath. While the younger ranger had originally thought it would be simple to overtake the orcs, the Cruel Blades were moving with an almost superhuman efficiency in their march north. Neuville said nothing for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the valley below.

"I don't see them below," the older ranger finally answered, peering down through the fog shrouding the bottom of the valley. "I don't hear them below."

"Then we're ahead of them," Thierry concluded. "And there's nothing here."

"Let's head down to the Ondava," Neuville said, turning away from the slope. Thierry's face wrinkled in confusion.

"Why?" the younger ranger asked. "At least we've got the high ground up here. If they trap us down there, we're dead."

"I want to see what they're looking for," Neuville answered. "Stop whining and let's go. Quietly."

"They're going upriver," Thierry said, unhappy with the prospect of battling his way down the steep grade through the drenching rain and waterlogged brush. Neuville scowled back at his reluctant ally, then started without another word down the rocky slope. With a last, dismayed look to the sky, Thierry started down after his partner, keeping his long bow and an arrow in his hands in case the orcs were waiting for them along the Ondava's banks.

The stunted pines and bare, skeletal ash that grew along the east slope of the valley was interspersed by heavy thickets of briar and laurel, giving the two rangers ample cover on their descent. Neuville, despite his burly frame and the broad, double headed axe that he carried, slid noiselessly through the undergrowth, his drab green cloak blending easily into the laurel and pine. Thierry stayed almost a dozen yards behind his companion, stealthily picking his own route through the dripping brush as he scanned the slope around him. Although he strained his ears to hear even the slightest noise, the only thing Thierry could hear was the incessant drumming of the rain on the leaves and ground, or the raging current of the river below them. Likewise, the younger ranger could not find any movement along the slope, other than flashes of movement ahead where Neuville stole through the brush.

Neuville finally came to a stop ahead of him, hovering on the edge of the forest where the pine and ash gave way to the rocky shores of the River Ondava. Thierry hesitated for a moment above his ally, nocking his arrow silently and drawing a slight tension on the string, taking cover behind a large chunk of granite that jutted up through the soil. For a long moment Neuville remained crouched among the briars and laurel, barely visible even to Thierry as he focused on something along the shore. Neuville's silent, focused stare put Thierry ill at ease, and the younger ranger slowly began to raise his bow in preparation to fire.

Within another second, the focus of Neuville's attention came into sight. A young girl, barely past her thirteenth winter and dressed in a thick, heavily padded tunic and a heavy cap that mostly covered her deep brown hair, came into sight along the bank. Despite her young age, the girl moved with careful steps along the rocky bank, holding a fairly made short bow in her hands and a short sword belted to her hip. Thierry almost stood up to reveal himself to the purely girl, but a stern warning glance from Neuville stopped him. With a faint tip of his long bow, Thierry shot a confused glance to his partner, but Neuville had already turned back to watch the young girl pick her way along the riverbank.

Neuville's true concern became all too apparent to Thierry a heartbeat later. A twig snapped off to his right, masked from the girl by the noisy river but all too apparent to both rangers. Thierry glanced quickly to his left, crouching down as far as possible, but for the moment nothing appeared to the ranger's sight. Stuck with his back to the noise, Neuville dared not make even the slightest move, his head craned around to watch for the new threat over his shoulder. A low grunt sounded below Thierry, close to the river bank. A glint of wet leather shone through a heavy clump of laurel. 

The girl froze in midstep, one foot suspended just above the rocky ground as a stifled curse drifted out of a briar thicket. Her dark eyes, shining with fear, went immediately to the source of the noise. Thierry drew his bowstring taut. Neuville shifted slightly, bringing his double axe into a marginally more ready position. For a long moment even the sound of the rain seemed to die away as the three groups tensed for the imminent battle.

The girl acted first, turning and sprinting back upriver. Galvanized by the sudden move, four orcs burst from the forest, hurling javelins at the fleeing human. Three missed their mark, but the apparent leader of the raiders, an orc with one missing ear and a trio of tattooed scar lines running down the center of his face, caught the girl in her hip with his throw. The orcs raced forward with howls of delight as the girl tumbled to the ground, already drawing pitted swords from their scabbards or pulling axes from belt loops. Thierry raised his bow quickly, taking quick aim on the apparent leader's studded leather tunic as Neuville exploded into the middle of the orcs.

The orcs were only a handful of paces behind the girl when Neuville pounced. The ranger bolted out of the trees with a harsh roar, swinging through the lead orc with the front head of his double axe. As that one stumbled to the ground, Neuville twirled the weapon around in his hands, slamming the second blade down through the leather cap and skull of the second raider. The third orc turned to Neuville just as Thierry loosed his first arrows, both striking the raider in the chest before he could try to bury his axe in the older ranger's back. Neuville turned on the last orc, the likely commander of the small raiding party, spinning his double axe quickly as the tattooed raider drew a pair of large battle axes and snarled fearlessly. Frantic to get in another shot before the raider closed the distance, Thierry yanked another arrow from his quiver and took quick aim on the orc.

Whether or not he recognized the threat Thierry posed, the orc rushed forward with a vicious double swing, immediately putting Neuville between the archer and himself. Thierry cursed as Neuville refused to get out of the way, instead focusing on launching a brutal series of attacks with both heads of his double axe. The older ranger spun the weapon quickly, putting two quick slices in at the orc, but the raider stumbled back a step to the churning river as he tried to fend off his opponent. The orc managed to land on minor hit on Neuville's shoulder as he countered, but the injury only served to incense the human. Thierry bolted out of the trees, drawing his long and short swords to join in the battle, but Neuville dropped low with his double axe to tear through the orcish raider's chest with a brutal slash. As the orc tumbled to one knee Neuville brought the other head of the axe around, nearly severing the orc's arm as he fell to the ground with a scream of pain. The orc crawled back another step, practically dragging himself into the Ondava, but Neuville easily kept pace as he raised his weapon to deliver the killing stroke.

"Neuville! Stop!" Thierry shouted, rushing across the bank. "Don't do it!"

"He's an orc, Thierry!" Neuville shot back, his face a mask of rage. "He deserves nothing less!"

"If he's from the Cruel Blades, we need him!" Thierry countered, grabbing the haft of his partner's axe. Neuville turned to the younger ranger, eager to kill the orc but also realizing that Thierry had a point.

"See to the girl," Neuville directed, still holding his double axe over the orc's throat. "I'll find out what we need from him."

"Neuville, why don't you see to her," Thierry suggested. Neuville turned an icy, threatening glare on his younger partner. With a last glance to the wounded orc, the younger ranger turned and started to the girl, who was still struggling to drag herself away from the battle. As Thierry walked out of earshot, Neuville turned his icy eyes back to his prisoner.

"You're part of the Cruel Blade?" the ranger asked, his voice flat and emotionless as he switched to the Khairathi dialect.

"I am," the orc replied, his face twisted into a mask of pain and hate.

"Where are you going?" Neuville demanded. The orc remained silent. "Why are you marching north?"

"Die, human," the orc spat.

"Answer my questions, or I will kill you," Neuville threatened, lowering the axe slightly over the orc's throat.

"If you are smart, you will kill me anyway," the raider countered. "The One Eye curse your bitch of a mother!"

The orc had barely finished his epithet when Neuville's axe fell, cleanly severing the raider's head from his body.

______________________________________________________

"Easy now, easy," Thierry said, using the Khairathi language as he carefully approached the wounded girl. Even with the javelin still embedded in her hip, she tried to draw herself up to one knee, holding her short sword shakily in front of her. "I'm a friend," Thierry tried, holding his hands out to his sides in a gesture of peace. "I only want to help you."

"You are not another raider?" the girl asked, trying to chase the pain and fear from her voice. Thierry smiled as he knelt in front of her.

"I'm not," the ranger confirmed. "I am a ranger from Tourant."

"Tourant?" the girl repeated, uncertain of the name's significance.

"To the east," Thierry explained. "We are a great kingdom. I can help you with your injuries, if you let me examine the wound."

The girl hesitated for a long moment, still warding the ranger off with her sword. Finally, she lowered her weapon and slumped back to the ground, her eyes welling up with tears of pain as she allowed Thierry closer. The archer examined the javelin sticking out of her hip for a moment, trying not to show his uncertainty at how to handle the injury.

"Neuville?" the younger ranger finally called out over his shoulder.

"What?" the older ranger replied, already standing next to him. Thierry glanced downstream slightly, seeing the orc's headless body lying on the edge of the water, then turned to his companion.

"You find out what we needed?" he inquired, letting an obvious note of disapproval slip into his voice.

"He was uncooperative," Neuville explained simply, kneeling next to his partner. The older ranger examined the wound for a moment, then gestured to the girl. "Hold her down."

"All right," Thierry said. He switched back to Khairathi as he gently moved around to the girl's head. "You have to hold still, dear," the ranger said, gently helping her to shift to her side more. "This is going to hurt, but you have to hold still."

The girl gave a slight, fearful nod, then squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in Thierry's studded leather jerkin. The younger ranger wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tightly, then gave a nod of his own to Neuville.

Her scream echoed through the valley, but Neuville already had the javelin removed before the girl could twist about in pain. The older ranger gave her a moment to calm down, then examined the wound as it began to bleed freely.

"You'll live," he said simply, pulling his pack from his shoulder and making some bandages from strips of cloth. The girl was sobbing openly now with agony, trying not to look down at the hole in her side. As Neuville went about covering the wound, Thierry pulled a small flask from his own pack, and helped the girl sip down some of the brandy it held.

"It'll be all right," Thierry said, gently pushing the girl's hair back from her face. With the bandages in place, Neuville sat back slightly, turning to look down river "You'll be okay now."

"Not if we stay here," Neuville suddenly said. Thierry looked up from the girl, and suddenly heard the faint, but unmistakable calls of orcish scouts. "We head back up the slope," Neuville directed. "Can you carry her, or should I?"

"You take her," Thierry said, pulling his long bow from his shoulder as he stood. "Get going. I'll hang low a little, and draw them off if they pick up our trail."

"I can do that," Neuville said. Thierry could already see cold glow that lit Neuville's eyes as the older ranger considered the opportunity to kill more orcs.

"You're stronger than me, so you can carry her," Thierry countered, not wanting to give his companion any reason to engage the orcs. "And I'm faster than you. So get going."

Neuville scowled for a moment, but finally relented and picked up the girl. As the older ranger started up the slope to the ridges above the river, Thierry melted back into the gloomy forest, hoping that the rain and the orcs' fundamental lack of patience in tracking would allow the three humans to slip away into the mountains.


	4. One Turn of the Vise

****

III

To the humans of Tourant or the goblins of Trzebin, Bijelo Polje would hardly be considered a city of note. The semipermanent home of the Orcs of the Bloody Fist housed barely over fourteen hundred inhabitants, and that came only during the harsh winter months when the army of the Bloody Fist could do no raiding. The wooden and stone palisade surrounding the encampment was only a pale shadow of the monstrous walls and defenses of mighty Trzebin itself, or even the Tourant frontier city of Montcalm. Many of the homes inside those walls were little more than nomadic tents or thatched huts divided by rutted, muddy roads that the heavy thaws and rains had turned into muddy rivers. Only the imposing, granite and oak temple to the One Eye, Gruumsh, gave the feeling that the home of the Bloody Fist was not a temporary encampment.

With winter only a week behind them, the Bloody Fist still dominated the low ridges that made up the encampment of Bijelo Polje, waiting impatiently for better weather and new raiding prospects. Despite the fact that it was still fairly early in the raiding season, however, Libor Bloody Fist was anything but cheery as he approached the rough stone and wood temple to Gruumsh. Several of his scouts had already returned from the east and south, reporting what the orcish warlord had already feared. The humans of Tourant had made few new settlements along the border of their kingdom, while what few villages remained were far too low on food and provisions to be worth raiding. Likewise, the human and orcish tribes of the mountains were beginning to suffer from starvation and plague, leaving the Bloody Fist nowhere to turn to replenish their own dwindling food supplies. Recent experiments in storing food and using slaves as farm labor had given Libor's tribe a surplus that had carried them through the winter, but his own people's hunger was not what worried the orcish chieftain. Libor knew all too well that once the relative prosperity of his tribe became known to the others of the mountains, it would only be a matter of time before the starving tribes would turn to Bijelo Polje into their prime target. 

Libor pushed the doors to the temple open and strode into the dark recesses, crossing the black flagstones toward the burning braziers surrounding the idol of Gruumsh. The statue of the One Eye towered to the very ceiling of the temple dome, standing almost sixteen feet in height. The statue itself, representative of a tall, powerfully built spear wielding orc with one eye made of obsidian, never ceased to amaze Libor, both from the intricate workmanship and the ultimate ideal of the orc that Gruumsh presented. The fiery braziers provided the only light to the temple; what few windows or vents that existed in the structure did little to allow the failing light of the late, rainy afternoon into the bare, circular chamber. Libor came to a stop only a few feet in front of the intimidating statue, and slowly dropped to his knees. The orcish chieftain prostrated himself before the icon for a long moment, placing his own ornately engraved spear on the ground before him.

"Your reverence is why the One Eye raises you up," a raspy, ancient voice said from the far side of the icon. Libor kissed the stone floor at Gruumsh's feet, then slowly stood again to face the withered, white haired orcish priest that appeared from the shadows. Like the statue, the priest had only one eye, cut out upon his ordination so many years ago in devotion to the orcish god. "You are exalted in his grand vision."

"Predrag," Libor said, bowing to the old priest. "I am troubled, and seek the One Eye's counsel."

"As I suspected," Predrag said, turning and walking back behind the icon. Libor followed a respectable step behind the old priest, until the two came to a large obsidian brazier. Inside the bowl of the brazier, a bed of embers gave off a sullen, bloody glow that illuminated Predrag's scarred, wrinkled face in an almost sinister light. "It is the late winter that troubles you, or rather, what it has wrought."

"If we leave Bijelo Polje, other tribes will take our holdings," Libor said. Predrag nodded slowly, already aware of the situation. "Is this what the One Eye wishes?"

"In the fall, you heeded the One Eye's vision," Predrag said, gazing into the embers. "The One Eye foretold the harsh winter, and the troubling spring to come. Your use of the human and elven slaves saved your tribe from starvation. You are also right to fear the other tribes. I see a blade poised to strike you down, a serrated edge wielded by a tainted hand."

"Oleksandr!" Libor snapped. "The bastard half breed would dare attack me?"

"He wields a power far greater than you would admit," Predrag observed, turning to the chieftain. "The One Eye has favored the Cruel Blades in the past. Starvation drives them north."

"Then we cannot abandon Bijelo Polje," Libor concluded. "I will not give my city to the bastard son of a human whore. Do they march on us already?"

"They will come soon enough," Predrag said. "But do not simply wait for them. Oleksandr is cunning, and will find a way to break your defenses if given time. Strike now, before he discovers our knowledge of his coming."

"It is better to face his army with our defenses," Libor argued.

"Bijelo Polje will not survive a siege," Predrag countered. "You must strike before the half breed comes to our home. Our own food runs low, and siege will only draw other tribes to Oleksandr's banner. Strike now. March south, and make the River Ondava run red with the blood of the Cruel Blades. Hiding inside these walls will only turn the One Eye's favor from you."Then, the One Eye's will be done," Libor said, bowing slightly to the old priest. Without another word the chieftain turned and left the temple, his mind already turning to the inevitable and bloody battle to come.

______________________________________________________

"Radomir and his men have been killed."

Ruslan nodded silently as he walked along the shoreline of the River Ondava. The rain, steady all day, was beginning to strengthen, but that had still not washed all the blood from the stony river bank where Radomir and his small scouting party had met their end. Mislav, the young orcish soldier that had first discovered the slaughtered scouting party, hurried to keep up with the orcish leader as Ruslan picked his way across the rocks.

"The blood was still warm when we found them," Mislav said as Ruslan stopped over Radomir. The scout leader had been decapitated, his head likely washed away with the raging current of the river. Two more brutal slashes marred the orc's body, evidence of a heavy blade of some sort. Without a word Ruslan pushed his way past Mislav to the second body, this one punctured neatly by a pair of holes through his leather tunic. The last two orcs had been killed in close combat in the same fashion as Radomir, but what was more curious to the orcish leader was a fifth patch of blood and several drag marks in the rocky bank a few yards ahead. "Sir?" Mislav asked, coming up behind him.

"What?" Ruslan asked, finally giving the soldier some of his attention.

"Were they ambushed by the Bloody Fist?" Mislav inquired.

"The Bloody Fist would not retrieve their arrows," Ruslan said. "These drag marks were made by a small human or an elf."

"But we have seen no signs of settlement," Mislav said, confused. Once again Ruslan ignored the soldier as he made his way to the tree line. Several faint footprints marred the black soil of the slope, too large for an elf. Humans had ambushed Radomir and his patrol. A few tracks started up through the underbrush, but the rain was already washing the evidence away.

"Not every human waits for us to come to them," Ruslan said, kneeling for a moment beneath a thick clump of laurel and briar. The tracker carefully pushed the vegetation aside with the head of his double axe, studying the ground for a moment, then stood up.

"Do we go after them?" Mislav asked expectantly.

"No," Ruslan decided. Although he was certain that he could track the humans given enough time, the rain would only make such a chore more difficult, and losing time to find a minor nuisance was unacceptable. "We continue north. Scouting parties are to be doubled in size."

"But, these humans killed Radomir and his men!" Mislav exclaimed, gesturing to the bodies on the ground. Ruslan turned a cold glare on the younger orc.

"The humans will wait," the tracker snarled, raising Mislav's chin with the tip of his double axe. "Now go."

Mislav nodded wordlessly, and turned to rush back to the others. Ruslan hesitated for a long moment near the orc that had been slain by arrows, his cold, dark eyes scanning the long slopes that headed up from the Ondava. For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving through the rain soaked forest, but as soon as it had appeared it was gone. Finally, convinced that the humans would be of no further distraction, the orcish ranger started back to the Cruel Blades himself.

______________________________________________________

"Neuville?"

"Make a little more noise, why don't you?" Neuville whispered harshly, pushing back a dense screen of vegetation as Thierry rushed to his small camp. The younger ranger dropped quickly beneath the makeshift shelter that Neuville had build beneath the limbs of a young, thick spruce, a clear expression of anxiety on his face. "What's wrong with you?"

"They've got a tracker," Thierry said, glancing back over his shoulder. "Pelor's sunny ass, he almost spotted me!"

"You sound surprised," Neuville said, though his tone hardly conveyed the statement as a joke. "Did he start up after you?"

"No," Thierry said, trying to dry himself slightly as he wormed his way up to the spruce's trunk and pulled off his dripping cloak. "But I swear to Pelor, he must have looked right at me."

"Then they don't think we're worth the time," Neuville decided. The older ranger hesitated for a moment, then continued. "Just to be safe, though, no fire tonight."

"Great," Thierry grumbled. "It's cold, pouring rain, and now we can't have a fire. How's the kid?"

"Seems all right," Neuville answered, gesturing behind him as he stared out into the forest. Thierry glanced to the other side of the tree, and found the girl wrapped in Neuville's heavy woolen blanket and half covered with dead branches and old needles.

"Hi," Thierry said, smiling slightly at the girl as he switched back to her language. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm cold," the girl replied, her deep brown eyes still anxiously tracking the ranger's every move.

"I'm sorry, but we can't build a fire right now," Thierry said with an apologetic smile. "The orcs might come up and find us. Is your side all right?"

"It hurts," the girl said simply. Thierry smiled slightly.

"I have a little more brandy here, to take the edge off the pain," the younger ranger said with a smile, pulling his flask out of his cloak. "You want a little?"

The girl hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Neuville glanced back at the pair as she tipped the flask back, then handed it back to Thierry.

"You better not be getting her drunk," the older ranger warned. "We have enough problems already."

"Relax, Neuville," Thierry said. Then he turned back to the girl. "What's your name?"

"Irina," the girl answered after a moment's hesitation. Thierry smiled.

"Well, I'm Thierry, and the mean one over there is Neuville," the younger ranger said, a touch of humor to his voice. Neuville rolled his eyes in disgust. "What were you doing out here, Irina?"

"Nothing," the girl answered simply.

"Nothing?" Thierry repeated, smiling slightly. His voice took on a jovial tone as he continued. "You had to be doing something. Were you out here hunting?"

"No," the girl replied.

"Fishing?"

"No."

"Guarding something?"

The girl hesitated for a moment, uncertain how to answer Thierry's inquiry.

"We're on your side, Irina," Neuville said, not even looking over his shoulder. " You don't have to lie to us. We're Tourant rangers. We're not going to attack your home."

"Tourant?" the girl repeated. Although she still seemed uncertain of the name, she turned to Thierry with a hint of renewed anxiety. "You will take our land?"

"No," Thierry answered, a bit surprised by the assumption.

"They don't like loggers, either," Neuville observed. Thierry glanced up to his partner. "They think we're here to steal their homes from them."

"We're here to help you," the younger ranger explained. "We don't like the orcs any more than you do. Do you live near here? Were you guarding your home?"

Again the girl hesitated, still wary of trusting the two humans. As the last of what little light had filtered through the clouds during the day disappeared and the rain picked up even more, Neuville turned back to the girl impatiently.

"We can let you go, and you can try crawling back to wherever you came from before the Cruel Blades hunt you down and kill you," the ranger said, a stern tone to his voice. "Or you can tell us where you live and we can get you back there alive. Now I don't know how many more times Thierry can tell you we're friends, but pretty soon I'm just going to abandon you and move on."

"Neuville, what in the Nine Hells is wrong with you?" Thierry demanded, pushing the older ranger back as he switched to Tourant. "She's a kid, and you're about as frightening as Oleksandr himself!" 

"We don't have time for this!" Neuville shot back. "Every minute she delays, the Cruel Blades come further upstream! And if her village or family or whatever is in the way, they're going to get cut down!"

"Fiume," the girl said timidly, glancing from Neuville to Thierry. Both rangers turned back to her.

"What's Fiume?" Thierry asked, trying to be as quiet and gentle as possible. "Is it your town?"

"Yes," the girl answered. "It… is to the north. Chessa told me not to tell anyone where it was."

"A woman's name," Neuville said, losing his angry edge once the girl began to cooperate. "Is Chessa your mother?"

"No, she… she is our leader," the girl answered. Thierry and Neuville glanced to each other for a moment.

"That's a new one," Thierry said, shrugging. Almost all of the mountain tribes, both human and orc, treated women as little more than possessions. It was exceedingly rare to find a woman with any sort of status west of Tourant's borders.

"When we find this Chessa, I'm going to have a long talk with her about sending children out alone on patrols," Neuville said to his partner.

"Irina, we can get you back to Fiume," Thierry said, kneeling next to the girl and putting a hand on her shoulder. "But you have to guide us there. We also need to talk to Chessa. An entire clan of orcs, the Cruel Blades, are coming up the river. Do you think you can guide us back to your home?"

"I'm not supposed to," Irina said quietly. Neuville closed his eyes for a long moment.

"We know you're not supposed to, but this is important," Thierry said, cutting in before Neuville could lose his cool. "If we don't get there first, the orcs might. They're coming north, upriver, and we're trying to stay ahead of them."

"You wonder why I hate kids," Neuville grumbled in Tourant as Irina delayed for a long moment.

"She's terrified, Neuville," Thierry countered. "And with you around, I can't say I blame her."

"It's north," Irina finally answered, interrupting the pair.

"You can show us the way? In the dark?" Neuville asked. Irina gave a hesitant nod. "Okay. Then let's get moving, before the orcs put some effort into looking for us."


	5. Fiume

****

IV

Nestled in the shadows of a small cliff of black stone, the village of Fiume would have been easy to miss. Granite boulders and thick forest surrounded the tiny community, camouflaging the two dozen or so diminutive thatch and stone dwellings set along the largely uneven ground. Towering spruce trees still stood between the homes, and not even a low wall of loose stones surrounded the community. The morning sun had finally broken through the clouds that had obscured it for the last several days, but the vertical crags just east of the village did not allow any light directly onto the village.

"I never would have guessed it was here," Thierry said, turning to Neuville as the two hesitated just outside of Irina's village. Only a faint scent of wood smoke permeated the fresh morning air, further concealing the village's presence.

"Where is everyone?" Neuville asked, looking to Irina. Exhausted from her wounds and still unable to walk, Thierry held the girl cradled in his arms and wrapped in Neuville's blanket. "Shouldn't someone be on guard?"

"The guards stay hidden," Irina answered, pointing to a roughly square chunk of granite flanked by a pair of small spruces. As the ranger looked more closely, he could see another girl, maybe two or three years older than Irina, crouched behind the branches with an arrow nocked in her short bow. As Irina pointed her out, the girl stood warily, still keeping her bowstring taut.

"Who are you?" the girl challenged, pointing her arrow at Neuville.

"We're friends," Thierry replied, taking a step forward. "We found Irina by the river. She's wounded, and needs help."

"Irina?" the girl repeated.

"It's me," Irina confirmed. The sentry slowly lowered her bow.

"Follow me," she said. Without waiting to see if the two rangers would follow, the sentry turned and hurried into the village.

"Well, come on," Thierry said, starting after the disappearing sentry. Neuville fell into step behind his younger companion, but kept his double axe ready in his hands as he scanned Fiume. Something still did not feel right about the tiny village, and the fact that the only sentry that he had seen so far was another girl barely past her fourteenth winter only set him more ill at ease. As the pair made their way around the monstrous spruce that dominated the village's center, the sentry stopped at one of the larger homes and began pounding on the door.

"Oleg!" the sentry shouted through the wood. "Irina is hurt!"

"Who's Oleg?" Thierry asked, looking to Irina. The girl opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything the door opened up, and Oleg stepped out of his house.

Neuville nearly brought his axe up in readiness to attack as Oleg came into view. Obviously a half orc, the old man's enormous, once powerful frame had begun to sag with his great age. Stringy white hair framed a heavily scarred face, including the red and black pigmented lines across his cheeks that identified him as a berserker. If Oleg noticed Neuville's taut, ready stance as he turned to Irina, he did not show even the faintest bit of trepidation. Thierry glanced nervously to his companion as the old half orc examined the girl in his arms.

"What happened to her?" Oleg inquired in a gravelly voice, looking to the younger ranger. Even hunched over, the half orc was as tall as Thierry, and only an inch or so shorter than Neuville. Thierry hesitated for a moment, his focus fixed on the badly scarred indentation where his right eye should have been, but snapped back to the present with the question.

"She was hit by a javelin," Thierry answered automatically. The half orc nodded.

"Teodora, find Chessa and tell her that Irina has returned," Oleg directed, gesturing to the young sentry. Teodora nodded and immediately rushed off, but Oleg paid her no heed as he carefully lifted Irina out of Thierry's arms. "You may come inside, if you wish," the half orc offered, turning to bring Irina into his home. Thierry glanced to Neuville for a moment, then shrugged in confusion and followed the old man into the cottage. Finally, still uncertain how to take the appearance of the ancient berserker, Neuville made his way through the door, ready to swing his double axe into action if the need arose.

Although cluttered with all sorts of blankets and old, rough hewn furniture, Oleg's home was not the den of filth that Neuville would have expected. A single lantern standing on the table in the middle of the room, brightly illuminating the tiny shrine to Pelor that had been erected on the right side of the cabin. Neuville stared at the shrine for a long moment, wondering why it had been placed inside the old berserker's home, until Thierry's voice brought his attention back to the present.

"We did what we could for her," the younger ranger said as Oleg gently placed the wounded girl on his oversized bed. "But she needs an experienced healer."

"I see," Oleg muttered, turning Irina on her side to examine the wound. "It is deep, but it is clean. You did not break off the head of the javelin inside the injury, I assume?"

"No, I didn't," Neuville answered, moving slightly closer to the bed. Oleg pulled a small wooden disk from under his coarse gray robes with one hand as he placed his other over Irina's injury. A faint golden light, almost too dim to be noticed, escaped from under the half orc's hand as he closed his eyes and whispered a prayer under his breath. When the old man removed his hand a moment later, all that was left of the girl's wound was a faint, reddish area across her skin.

"You're a priest of Pelor?" Thierry asked, shocked by the old berserker's faith. Oleg turned to him, smiling slightly.

"It would appear so," the half orc said. Oleg turned back to Irina as the girl tried to stand. "Rest easy, child," the priest instructed. "Give your leg some time to finish healing."

"Where is this town's leader?" Neuville asked. "What was she even doing out alone on the Ondava?"

"Sit down," Oleg said simply, ignoring the ranger's question. "Share some mead with me. Chessa will be here soon enough, and she will explain anything you need to know."

There'd better be a damn good reason for someone that young to be out alone," Neuville said, allowing a note of anger to seep into his voice as he gestured to Irina. Oleg smiled in amusement at the ranger's statement, but said nothing more as he set three mugs of mead on his table.

________________________________________________________________

"We are ready to march, Libor."

"Good," Libor said quietly, looking over his troops. Almost eight hundred orcs were assembled just inside the palisade gates of Bijelo Polje, but the orcish chieftain still held serious reservations about meeting the Cruel Blades along the Ondava. Libor still considered the walls of his town to be a measurable advantage that they were throwing away, but the will of the One Eye stated that he meet Oleksandr on more equal terms.

"You should not fear," Ondrej said, standing next to the chieftain. Libor turned to his lieutenant, studying Ondrej's badly scarred face and thick braids of coal black hair. Ondrej had served Libor as war chief for almost four years, wielding his great axe with wild abandon as he led the Bloody Fist into countless battles against the other tribes and the humans of Tourant. Ondrej smiled as his leader studied him, proudly displaying his sharpened tusks. "I will not let the bastard half breed come to our gates. As Predrag has said, we will turn the Ondava red with their blood."

"But we leave Bijelo Polje unprotected," Libor said, looking back to his town. "If Predrag were not so certain that this is the One Eye's will, I would not give up our defenses."

"We will meet them and crush them before they know what has happened," Ondrej said, patting the chieftain on his mailed shoulder. "By the time the other tribes have realized that we were on the move, they will already know of our glory and the defeat of the Cruel Blade. None would dare attack us then."

"I hope you are right," Libor said, still not entirely convinced. The chieftain pulled his spear from the ground where he had planted the weapon, and started through the ranks of his soldiers. "I want you to send Dobroslav and his raiders ahead. If we are to surprise Oleksandr, we must know where he is first. The main force will follow behind. They will likely try to come along the banks of the Ondava, so we will take the ridges in order to maintain the element of surprise."

"As you wish," the war chief said, turning and starting through the ranks to find the scouts. Libor watched Ondrej disappear for a long moment, then looked through the open gates as his army began to move south.

"The One Eye watch over us in battle," the chieftain whispered. Then he started swiftly to the head of the column.

________________________________________________________________

Watching Neuville sipping mead across the table from a half orc berserker seemed much like watching a caged wolf stare down a rabbit. Thierry did not know whether to be amused or disturbed by his partner's simmering hatred as the older ranger glared across Oleg's table at the old man, but the half orc seemed to be completely ignorant of the human's bias. It had been no mistake that Neuville put himself directly between Oleg and Irina, now sound asleep on the priest's bed, despite the fact that Oleg had done far more to heal the girl than the older ranger could have managed on his own.

"So, what made you become a priest of Pelor?" Thierry inquired, trying to find some way of breaking the tense silence. Oleg glanced over to the younger ranger, smiling faintly at the question.

"I had a life altering experience," the half orc replied, his one good eye shining with humor. "Put simply, a priest of Pelor healed me, not very long after he and his companions had beaten me near to death."

"Usually, when an orc is left alive, he tries to kill whoever it was that nearly killed him," Neuville said, his blue eyes icy as he stared across the table.

"Then I am the exception to the rule," Oleg said lightly, still acting oblivious to Neuville's prejudice. "Nonetheless, when I was young, and strong, I would have thought the same way. I suspect you already know why I have only one eye."

"To emulate Gruumsh," Neuville concluded darkly. Oleg nodded in agreement.

"Just as you only see the orcish side of me, Neuville, so my tribe only saw my human side," the half orc explained. "I cut out my eye to prove my loyalty to my tribe and to the One Eye himself. In those days, I was a great berserker, known for my strength and destructive frenzies. When I led assaults against villages, ones much like Fiume, no one lived."

"So what happened?" Thierry asked, before Neuville could launch another barbed remark.

"Human soldiers caught up to us," Oleg replied. "I had ventured far into your nation, and laid waste to several villages. People much like you came for us, and in a grand battle we were finally stopped. As I lay on the bloody ground, dying, one of your priests knelt over me. I cursed him and his god, but instead of striking the killing blow with his mace, he healed my wounds the best he could. I will never fully recover from that day, as you may see. My body was far too badly damaged. But as that priest nursed me back to health, I finally saw that life is not about killing. And when I at last understood that, my savior taught me the best he could to venerate Pelor."

"Irina's lucky you found your way," Thierry said, glancing back to the girl. Oleg smiled faintly at the compliment. Neuville simply sat with his arms folded across his chest, unwilling to let his suspicion of the half orc die away just yet. A knock at the door caught their attention then, ending the conversation.

"Come in," Oleg said, not bothering to stand. The door opened swiftly, and a young woman, almost as old as Neuville, stepped into the cottage. Her stern blue eyes turned first to the sleeping Irina, then to Oleg.

"She is all right?" the woman inquired of the old priest.

"She will be fine, Chessa," Oleg answered with a nod. As he heard the name, Neuville stood and turned quickly, confronting the woman before she could open her mouth to speak.

"You sent a child out there alone, and only now you worry about her safety?" the older ranger demanded, coming to within an inch of the woman's pale face. Chessa was nearly as tall as Neuville, and despite the fact that she was far less powerfully built than the man confronting her, she was anything but soft. "She would have been killed if not for us!"

"Do not preach to me, ranger," Chessa snarled back, not intimidated in the least by Neuville's fury. The raven haired woman's voice remained calm despite her obvious anger at being confronted by the stranger. "You have no idea what has happened here. Do not speak until you do."

"Come on, Neuville," Thierry said, trying to wedge himself between the pair. "Why don't you get her story before you try to kill her."

Neuville remained tense for a moment, ready to fight if need be, but finally accepted the younger ranger's suggestion and slowly sank back to his bench. With the confrontation defused for the moment, Thierry turned back to the town's apparent leader. "I apologize, but to find a girl of that age, all alone down by the Ondava, well, it just doesn't seem right."

"Under most circumstances, it would not be," Chessa explained. "You said she was on the river bank?"

"Yes," Thierry confirmed.

"She should not have been there," Chessa said. "She was supposed to stay on the ridges, and make certain that there were no orcs coming towards us. One more attack, and what few people are left here will be killed."

"Where are your men?" Neuville asked, trying not to sound as angry as he felt.

"Dead," Chessa countered simply. "The Flayed Skull Orcs came dangerously close to finding us last autumn. In order to lead them away, most of Fiume's men attacked them and led them west, to the river. Most of them did not come back. What few men were left died fighting a winter wolf only a month ago. We have lost many of our elders to starvation and disease, as well. There are only sixty of us left. That is why Irina, Teodora, and others like them must do the scouting, hunting, and fighting that our men once did."

"You can't stay here," Thierry said. Chessa turned to him. "The Cruel Blades are on the march, coming north along the river. If they come into the forest looking for a village to raid, they'll find you for certain!"

"Where would we go?" Chessa asked. Although she tried not to show it, the younger ranger could see a clear hint of frustration in her voice and her eyes.

"We can guide you back to Tourant," Neuville offered, standing up again and swallowing his pride. "I… I apologize for turning on you before I knew the situation. But Thierry is right. The Cruel Blade will find you if you stay here."

"I wish it was that simple," Chessa said. "But we have almost no food, and these people are not capable of such a trek."

"But you can't just stay here," Neuville said.

"We have to," Chessa explained. "That's why Irina and some others go out as scouts. I do not want to send out children, but we must know where the orcs are around us. Hopefully, they'll stay to the river, and keep going north. If they do, we'll be safe here."

"And if they don't?" Neuville asked. Chessa's eyes dropped to the ground.

"Then we will find out if they can make such a journey east," the young woman answered.

"If you two will stay here, and help us scout, we may be able to turn them away from us again," Oleg said. Thierry and Neuville both turned to the priest. "Will you help us?"

"Think we can manage it?" Thierry inquired, looking to Neuville.

"Who's going to watch the border?" Neuville asked in reply.

"Come on," Thierry said. "We're watching the Cruel Blades, and we're between them and the border, so we'll know if they turn east."

"It'd be a lot easier if we could just get everyone out of here," Neuville grumbled, considering the situation. "Even if they don't find you this time, they could as soon as we leave."

"We can't move, not now at any rate," Chessa repeated. Neuville sighed in resignation.

"Then I guess we'd better make sure the Cruel Blades don't find you," the ranger finally said.

________________________________________________________________

"We're losing too much time here. What is the problem?"

"The floods have washed out several of our tents and scattered our supplies," Vlastimir said, walking with Oleksandr along the rocky banks of the Ondava. Despite the fact that the sun had finally come out, the muddy, treacherous river was higher than it had been for the previous two days, tearing through the edge of the Cruel Blade encampment and washing away almost a dozen orcs with essential food and weapons. Even as the two leaders made their way through the chaotic encampment, over two dozen orcs were trying to salvage supplies that had been caught against the rocks more than a dozen feet into the raging current. "Our scouts are also delaying along the ridges, taking extra care to search for the humans that killed Radomir's patrol."

"Two or three humans are of no concern to us," Oleksandr snarled, turning on the orcish advisor. "The longer we delay on the river, the more time Libor and Predrag have to discover our plans and prepare for a siege."

We are just about ready to move again," Vlastimir assured the chieftain, shouldering his great axe as the two leaders trudged along the banks. "Ruslan should be back from his scouting detail very soon. Hopefully, the river will have subsided by the time we begin moving again."

"Send Ruslan to me as soon as he returns," Oleksandr said, growing more and more impatient with the continuing delays. A young orcish soldier rushed up to the pair, but stopped short and waited silently until the chieftain addressed him. "In the meantime, I want every orc not directly involved in the salvage operation moving north again." Oleksandr hesitated for a moment, then turned to the soldier. "What do you want?"

"Ruslan has returned, and wants to see you immediately," the soldier answered. Vlastimir and Oleksandr exchanged curious glances, then started off with the soldier to the northern end of the encampment. As the two leaders neared the edge, they could already see Ruslan and Dainis speaking. Judging by Dainis' furious stomp on the ground, the news that Ruslan had given him was not good.

"What is it?" Oleksandr demanded, pushing past a few orcs laboring to gather their lost supplies.

"The river covers the entire bank to our north," Ruslan answered simply. "It will be impossible to continue along the shore, and the river is already threatening to rise further here."

"Gruumsh's eye!" Oleksandr swore.

"Nothing is going right," Vlastimir observed simply. "The winter still haunts us."

"We can take the ridges," Ruslan offered, pointing to the slopes above the Ondava. "It will take us more time, but the forest will provide cover for us, and we will not be flooded out up there."

"It will take us a full day to get up there, and another day to cut back across to Bijelo Polje!" Dainis exclaimed, angrily tossing his thick braid back over his shoulder.

"We will lose more than two days if we are carried halfway down the river by the current," Ruslan countered. "We take the ridges, or we drown in the Ondava. It is as simple as that."

"Then we take the ridges," Oleksandr decided, looking up to the tree line above them.


	6. Opening Hostilities

**V**

"I still think we might have wasted too much time there."

"We didn't even spend half a day," Thierry chided, turning back to Neuville as the two paused for a moment to scan their surroundings. The bright, sunny spring day was quickly giving way to darkness, and the failing light that filtered through the thick trees began to throw heavy shadows across the forest between Fiume and the Ondava valley. "Besides," Thierry continued with a bit of a smirk, "were you planning on having us stay up for three or four days straight? We needed the sleep."

"Yeah, but I got a bad feeling about this," Neuville said. "We left Oleksandr alone for too long."

"He's got a whole army with him," Thierry reminded the older ranger. "Even half a day won't allow them to get too far ahead of us."

"I hope you're right," Neuville said. Satisfied that there were no orcs ahead of the pair, the older ranger pushed forward again, moving from tree to tree in the dying light. Thierry stayed a half dozen yards behind his partner as the two dodged forward another hundred feet. Thierry dropped to a crouch next to Neuville as the two stopped behind a fallen spruce, scanning once again for their enemy.

"So, what'd you think of Chessa?" Thierry inquired, nudging his partner slightly.

"Keep your mind on the job," Neuville snapped.

"She put you in your place," Thierry continued, stifling a chuckle. "I think you need a take charge woman like that. She'd be real pretty if not for that stern glare all the time."

"Keep your mouth shut, Thierry," Neuville ordered. "If you get us spotted, you'll be the first person I kill."

"I thought you said the orcs would stay to the river," Thierry remarked with a grin. Neuville inhaled deeply, reigning in his anger.

"Your turn to go first," the older ranger growled.

"You won't bury that axe in my back, will you?" Thierry inquired, smirking faintly. Neuville turned a furious glare on his partner. "Just checking."

Neuville hesitated for a moment as Thierry dodged through the trees, then started off again himself. The younger ranger stole forward another twenty yards or so, but then stopped and dropped to the ground behind a jumble of rocks. Neuville made his way up to a tree a few paces behind the ranger, waiting tensely as his partner raised his head ever so slightly to peer over the rocks that he used as cover.

The dense forest ended only a quarter of a mile away, where it opened up again on the steep slopes down to the River Ondava. But as the last rays of sunlight disappeared, Neuville could just make out fires being lit. A faint smell of smoke drifted away from the ridge line, carrying with it harsh orcish voices complaining about the back breaking labor they had been forced into during the day. Thierry peered through the trees for a long moment, then turned back to Neuville with a silent, questioning expression. The older ranger gestured quickly to his partner, signaling that they should make their way north. Thierry nodded in agreement, and slowly drew himself up to his knees as he kept his eyes on the distant camp. The younger ranger hurried through the darkening trees, moving north a few yards before he stopped again and waited for Neuville to catch up to him. Neuville rushed past his partner's position, stopping when he had covered a few yards past Thierry and dropping into a small, rocky ditch. Again Thierry hurried past, leapfrogging Neuville's position and dropping down behind a bizarrely bent pine. Neuville got to one knee and prepared to move again, but a sharp gesture from Thierry had him back down on the ground in an instant.

Stuck in the shallow ditch, Neuville could see nothing around him. Ahead, Thierry stayed low to the ground behind the pine, watching intently for a moment. With a careful, slow motion the younger ranger shifted slightly to face Neuville, first pointing to his eyes, then holding up three fingers, then pointing to the forest just beyond the older ranger, and finally holding up his hands and moving them slowly together. Three orcs, moving toward him. Neuville's grip tightened on his double axe as a branch snapped just over the lip of the ditch. Thierry carefully drew an arrow from his quiver, but did not dare draw his bowstring for fear the motion would give him away.

"How come we have to get the firewood?" one dismal voice complained, only a few feet at best from the ditch. "We spent all day hauling supplies up that damned hill."

"So did everyone, Wieclaw," a second voice grumbled. "Shut your mouth and find some wood."

"It ain't fair," Wieclaw continued. Neuville shifted ever so slightly, trying both to push himself farther out of sight and to ready himself for an attack. "We do all the work. Ruslan's scouts do nothing. They should be out here doing this."

"Ruslan's scouts are far more important than us," the third orc put in, a clear note of disgusted sarcasm in his voice. "They need their rest, so they can sneak around in the woods like a pack of goblin thieves. After all, we could never beat Libor without them."

"If Ruslan could hear you, Lazar, he would gut you on the spot," the second orc said. Looking straight up, Neuville could see the back of the speaker's studded leather tunic and thick, unkempt hair. One step backward, and the orc would be standing on his chest. Thierry carefully raised his bow, silently drawing the string taut. "Wieclaw! What are you doing?"

"Help me drag this log back!" Wieclaw shouted. The orc standing over Neuville disappeared from sight, and soon the three foragers could be heard straining to drag their wood back to their encampment. As the sounds of the orcs' complaints faded back towards the ridge, Neuville finally made his way to Thierry.

"Sure they'll stay on the river," the younger ranger said sarcastically, keeping his voice to a whisper as Neuville dropped down behind the pine.

"They all must have come up," Neuville said, ignoring Thierry's comment for the moment. "From the way they talk, they've been hauling their supplies up all day. One thing, though. They're definitely after Libor. They said it themselves."

"Yeah, I heard," Thierry said quietly. "Hopefully they keep heading north."

"They wouldn't have given up the river bed unless they had to," Neuville said, glancing back through the dark forest. The orcs' campfires were barely visible in the distance. "We can try to get ahead of them again, and see what's wrong. Maybe we can steer them back down."

"Whatever it is, if an entire army can't deal with it, I really doubt we'll have much success," Thierry said dubiously. Neuville scowled back at the younger ranger for a moment, then disappeared into the gathering gloom.

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They moved swiftly and silently, covering vast distances without leaving a trace of their passage. The murky darkness of the forests that stretched across the ridges above the River Ondava only aided their cause, hiding them from any sentries or patrols that the Orcs of the Cruel Blade might have sent out. They had covered nearly twenty miles since morning through rugged forest and steep ridges, but if the Cruel Blades wanted a fight in the darkness, they would be sure to make the half breed's forces pay.

Dobroslav dropped low behind a leaning spruce, his dark eyes peering ahead into the inky night as he pushed his coarse mop of hair back from the recently healed scars on his face. For a long moment the orcish scout watched the darkness ahead, searching for any signs of Oleksandr's tribe or his own men. All around him, faint rustles denoted the positions of his troops, almost forty orcs nearly invisible in the night. The orcish war leader put two fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply once, a quick, piercing note that cut through the darkness. Immediately the rustling around him stopped as the others took up defensive posture around their leader. A second whistle, this one lower and less insistent in pitch, summoned a pair of orcs from the gloom.

"Where are they?" Dobroslav demanded quietly as his point men came to his side.

"Almost a quarter mile ahead of us," the larger of the two replied, leaning on his spear as he knelt next to his leader. The scout pointed back behind him as he spoke, keeping his voice to a whisper "The entire tribe. They've come up from the water."

"Perhaps the river forced them to higher ground," Dobroslav surmised, glancing past his men into the darkness. "Does it look like they have food?"

"For the moment, yes," the first orc answered. "They are still well supplied, for the moment."

"Then delaying them for a day or two will not help," Dobroslav concluded. The war leader hesitated for a moment, then gestured with his serrated battle axe to the smaller of the two orcs. "Malomir, you are the fastest runner. Return to Libor and the main column. Give him a full report on the half breed's position and the condition of his forces."

"As you wish," the smaller orc said, his filthy brown hair falling down across his dark eyes and pierced nose. "I will return to Libor before the dawn."

"Also tell him that we will flank to the east," Dobroslav said, grabbing Malomir by the arm before he could begin his run. "We will take cover in the crags there and rest until morning, then follow the half breed's forces until Libor attacks. We will hit from the side as he strikes from the front."

"I will tell him," Malomir said. Dobroslav nodded, and the orc turned north to start his run back to the main column. As he departed, Dobroslav turned back to the other orc. "Pass the word," the war leader said. "We move east. One mile away we should find all the cover we need."

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"With the river flooded, they're going to stay to the ridges. She has to move them now."

"Maybe they'll stay along the edge," Thierry managed between gasps, trying to get air back into his lungs after a quarter mile sprint away from the ridgeline above the Ondava. The forest was nearly pitch black from the moonless night and the thick canopy, but the two rangers had managed to steer clear of most of the obstacles in their way. "If they're heading for the Bloody Fist, it'd be easier for them to stay near the river."

"Do you really want to gamble on that when there's about forty children in that village?" Neuville panted, leaning against an old, dead pine. Thierry hesitated for a moment. "I didn't think so," the older ranger concluded.

"Do you want to gamble with their lives by marching them into Tourant?" Thierry inquired. "You heard what Chessa said. They don't have the supplies for it."

"It's only a day or two," Neuville argued, turning back to his partner.

"For us, maybe," Thierry said. "But for a column of women and children, it's twice that long. Longer, if the orcs notice us on the move."

"We're in a bad spot," Neuville grumbled, dropping into a squat as he tried to regain his breath.

Two javelins slammed into the dead trunk only inches above his head.

Neuville and Thierry were moving in an instant, desperately trying to outrun a sudden hail of javelins. One bounced off of Neuville's back as his chain shirt deflected the impact, but another sank into his shoulder for a moment before its own weight pulled the projectile out. A third javelin tore a ragged gash along Thierry's temple as the weapon missed impaling his head by the slimmest margin, nearly spinning him around with the shock of the impact. Still the two rangers raced through the trees, hearing the calls of over a dozen orcs in the inky darkness behind them, gaining ground with every step.

Neuville turned suddenly, breaking off his retreat as soon as the javelins stopped slamming into the ground around them. The older ranger whirled and charged back into the oncoming orcs, catching three of them off guard with the sheer ferocity and lunatic courage of his attack. The lead orc screamed a war cry of his own and barreled forward, swinging his great axe in a wild chop, but Neuville spun left and slammed first one head, then the other, of his double axe into the warrior's exposed chest. As that one fell to the ground with a last squeal of pain, the ranger hurtled past him to the second orc, spinning the double axe quickly and crashing down on that one with a brutal overhead chop. The orc threw up his shield to deflect the assault, but as the top head bounced off of the wooden defense Neuville reversed momentum and brought the bottom head of the axe tearing up into his enemy's throat. A third orc rushed in from the side, taking the ranger by surprise, but the hammer wielding fighter dropped to his knees before he could launch his assault with two arrows sticking out of his side. The next orcs were still barging through the underbrush, giving the two rangers a precious moment to flee into the darkness, but Neuville simply kicked one of the raiders' corpses to the side as he prepared to face the renewed assault.

"What the hell are you doing?" Thierry shouted, on one knee only a few yards behind the ranger. Neuville twirled his axe once, ignoring his partner as four more orcs pushed their way into view. "They'll tear us apart if we stay here any longer!"

Neuville glanced back to his partner for only a moment, but it was already too late. Three of the orcs slammed into him head on, two of them hacking away with axes while the third jabbed between his allies with his spear. The younger ranger had no time to worry about his comrade, however, as the last orc, wielding a serrated battle axe and a carrying a heavy wooden shield, stormed past Neuville in his hurry to slay the archer. Thierry let two quick shots fly as the orc bore down on him, but the warrior simply angled his shield to catch the two shafts in the thick wood. With a final leap the orc was on him, chopping down with his axe as Thierry desperately threw his bow up to parry the attack.

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"Why do we have to patrol? We went out for firewood."

"If you'd stop complaining, Wieclaw, maybe we wouldn't be out here," Lazar grumbled, walking a few paces behind the irritable Wieclaw in the middle of a fourteen orc patrol. "Next time, keep your mouth shut when you're anywhere near Ruslan."

"I thought his scouts were supposed to be out looking for the Bloody Fist," Wieclaw said, his voice holding a hint of belligerence as he turned back to his companion. "I thought that's all his scouts were good for, anyway."

"You want a fight, Wieclaw?" Lazar inquired menacingly, pulling his heavy, flanged mace from his belt. "I'll give you one, runt."

"Both of you, stop it!" Lekomir snarled, turning from his position at point and coming back to the two orcs. The patrol leader poked at each one of the orcs with his broad bladed spear, pushing them back a step. "We're out here looking for Bloody Fists, and you two are going to fight each other?"  
"He called me out," Lazar growled, pointing at Wieclaw with his mace.

"He started," Wieclaw countered angrily. "I want right of combat."

"I'll kill you both if you don't shut your mouths!" Lekomir hissed. The patrol leader opened his mouth to berate his subordinates further, but a loud war cry from somewhere ahead cut him off. All fourteen orcs turned to the direction of the sound, listening intently for a moment as the sounds of combat reached their ears.

"The Bloody Fist?" one of the orcs guessed, listening as another war cry split the sounds of steel on steel.

"Who are they fighting?" another orc asked.

"Shut up and let's go," Lekomir ordered, quickly moving back to the point. Wieclaw and Lazar turned icy glares on each other for a moment, but each one put their differences aside as the patrol stole forward towards the sounds of battle.

Lekomir stopped behind a small pine as the combat came into view ahead of him. Almost a dozen orcs, none of them from the Cruel Blade, were locked in bloody combat with a pair of humans. The larger of the two humans was quickly being surrounded, but still he fought with admirable ferocity against his attackers. The second human fired a quick pair of shots at an orc wielding a vicious, serrated battle axe and heavy shield, but the orc masterfully deflected the shots as he closed in on the archer.

"What should we do?" Lazar asked, coming up next to the patrol leader. Lekomir glanced to his men. All of them were eager to join in the battle raging before them.

"We take one of the orcs for questioning," Lekomir said simply. "No one else survives."

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The long bow splintered under the force of the orc's blow, but the finely wrought weapon was of little concern to Thierry for the moment as he tried desperately to keep out of reach of his opponent's axe. The younger ranger drew his long and short swords with all the speed he could muster, but could barely get them in line to deflect yet another crushing assault from the orc before him. The axe wielding barbarian fought with a berserker's rage as he continued to force Thierry back, his axe striking sparks each time it connected with one of the younger ranger's blades or tearing bark from tree trunks when it missed. Praying for a lucky hit, Thierry lunged forward with his short sword as he slid to one side, barely drawing blood along the orc's chest as he beat the shield to the mark. Instead of drawing back in pain, however, the orc slammed his axe home in Thierry's gut, ripping through the ranger's chain shirt and opening a deep gash just above his belt. The younger ranger was thrown backwards by the sheer force of the blow, slamming squarely into a tree as his tunic and pants soaked with blood almost instantly. Sliding down the rough bark of the tree, Thierry could barely manage to hold his weapons in front of him as the orc hurtled toward him with his bloodstained axe poised to strike the killing blow.

The last thing Thierry had expected was to be saved by an orc, but that was, in essence, exactly what happened. The younger ranger's opponent was suddenly blindsided by a much taller orc, impaled on the newcomer's spear as the two were driven left by the momentum. Through the trees on Thierry's left, a second group of orcs charged out into the battle, ripping through the first group with devastating speed. Two of Neuville's opponents were dead before they had even realized the new threat, and within seconds the first group of orcs was rushing back in the direction they had come. Through the chaos, Thierry could see Neuville dodging between orcs as reinforcements suddenly appeared for both sides, landing only a few wild swings of his double axe as he tried to escape the confused melee. The older ranger slid to the ground next to his partner, ducking beneath a stray javelin that someone had hurled into the fray.

"Are you all right?" Neuville asked urgently, pulling Thierry's hands away from the jagged wound to his chest.

"I don't know," the younger ranger answered numbly as he stared at the blood covering his hands. "Should I be in pain?"

"You'll feel it soon enough," Neuville said, quickly sheathing Thierry's weapons in their scabbards. "Can you walk?"

"I can't even stand up," Thierry replied with a weak grin. Without wasting any more time on words, Neuville hoisted his wounded companion onto his shoulder and sprinted off into the darkness, leaving the orcs and the frenzied battle behind.


	7. Closing the Vise

**VI**

The first lights of dawn were only just beginning to brighten the eastern sky, but the entire Cruel Blade encampment was awake. News of the first battle against the Bloody Fist had energized the entire camp, and now every orc sharpened his weapons or made last prayers to the One Eye for glory in battle as they prepared for the fight to come. Nearly every orc's eyes were lit with an eager glow. The battle would come even sooner than they expected.

The very news that had elated his soldiers, however, brought a worried frown to Oleksandr's face as he leaned on his monstrous, serrated great sword. Dainis and Vlastimir, only a few feet in front of him, took turns kicking the captured Bloody Fist orc that Lekomir, the bloodied but proud patrol leader that had first discovered Libor's scouts, had brought to them, while Ruslan watched with vague disinterest. Lekomir himself still watched the affair with eager eyes, hoping to be allowed a chance to land a few of his own kicks on the unfortunate prisoner.

"Enough," Oleksandr said, raising a hand to stop his generals. Dainis and Vlastimir took a step back from the captured orc, allowing their leader to stand over him. Slowly the mauled prisoner turned his face, swollen and bloodied, to the chieftain.

"I know nothing more, I swear," the captive mumbled, speaking through a mouth full of blood and broken teeth. "I have told you all I know."

"Then it is time for you me to uphold my end of the bargain," Oleksandr concluded. The half orc lifted his monstrous sword slowly, raising it over his head for a decapitating strike. The prisoner dropped his head in resignation, ready to accept the killing blow.

A quick sweep of the blade's sharp side cleanly severed the prisoner's head. Oleksandr leaned down, and picked up the prisoner's head, then tossed it over the ridge to the river below.

"If they flank us from the east, they can pin us against the river," Dainis said, already moving forward with plans for the upcoming battle. "We should move now. Rush forward and strike the killing blow."

"Why would Libor abandon Bijelo Polje?" Oleksandr inquired quietly, more to himself than anyone else. That single piece of information worried the chieftain more than anything else. Libor was too good a tactician to overlook the obvious values of his fort's defenses.

"He must have been trying to ambush us," Vlastimir assumed. "With this knowledge, however, we can ambush him."

"It is possible he was hoping to use the river to trap us, instead of being trapped himself inside his fort," Ruslan pointed out. "Perhaps his food supplies were not enough to see him through a siege. It would be a risky gamble, but not one without its rewards."

"It bothers me," Oleksandr said, turning to his half brother. "I want to know what Libor has. Ruslan, send out a detachment to find his camp. Tell me who is with him, how many there are. He must have some advantage to challenge us in the open."

"As you wish," Ruslan said, nodding slightly to the half orc.

"In the meantime, we will move east, deeper into the forest," Oleksandr continued. "Vlastimir, you will keep half of our force on the ridges, in case Libor sends more patrols. Dainis and I will take the rest into the forest. If he wishes to flank us to the east, then we will outflank him."

"They will be ready to move by dawn," Dainis promised, already turning and starting through the encampment. Vlastimir hesitated for a moment, then kicked lightly at the prisoner's headless corpse lying in the mud.

"What shall we do with this?" the orc inquired simply.

"Crucify it," Oleksandr replied. "Leave it as a warning to those who would defy the Cruel Blades."

"Take care of it," Vlastimir said, turning to Lekomir. The patrol leader moved forward quickly to dispose of the body.

"Lekomir," Oleksandr said. The patrol leader froze for a second, then turned hesitantly to his chieftain. "You are certain that none of Libor's orcs escaped? Only the humans?"

"Certain, my lord," Lekomir replied.

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He was limping badly and nearly certain that he left an obvious trail to follow, but the forest remained still around him.

Dobroslav slumped against a rocky outcropping, his face twisted by a mask of pain as he gave himself a moment to rest. The orc's side was covered in blood, still leaking from the deep wound in his side where the Cruel Blade orc had impaled him on a spear. Each ragged, gasping breath drove a fresh spike of pain through his entire right side. The human ranger's short sword had left a shallow gash along his chest, far less dramatic than his spear wound but still painful. The orc had suffered two other wounds from swords as he had fought his way out of the wild fray, barely escaping with his life from the Cruel Blade ambush. He alone had survived the battle; while his orcs had fought bravely and killed several of Oleksandr's men, his two score soldiers had all died in the end. While it had pained Dobroslav to leave his orcs behind to face their deaths alone, the scout leader knew that he had to report the Cruel Blades' knowledge to Libor. If not, the Bloody Fist could be walking into a trap.

Dobroslav pushed himself to his feet once more, steadying himself against the rocks as he glanced up to the sky. A faint glow had started in the east already, slowly brightening the sky over him and beginning to light the forest ahead of him. Gravely wounded and past the point of exhaustion, the orc nevertheless pushed himself to run once more as he turned north. 

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For once, he would have preferred Thierry's constant chatter to the silence.

Neuville paused for a moment as the sun finally broke the horizon, listening for a long moment as he had through the night. Slung over his shoulder, the unconscious Thierry was still breathing, but only barely. The older ranger had managed to staunch his partner's wound, reducing the flow of blood to a slow trickle, but Thierry would die if he did not receive proper attention soon. Thierry's blood had soaked through not only his own clothes, but Neuville's cloak and tunic as well, silent testimony to the grievous injury that the younger ranger had received. The orcs' pursuit through the night had not been terribly determined, but it had forced Neuville to spend nearly three hours trying to evade the Cruel Blade patrols before he could take time to examine his partner. Thierry had drifted in and out of consciousness for some of that time, but as dawn began to light the forest the younger ranger had slipped into a distressingly unresponsive state. Neuville's legs were weak beneath him, both from his exhausting run through the night and blood loss from his own wounds, but the older ranger refused to slow even the slightest bit as he covered the final distance to Fiume.

Finally the village came into sight, silent in the early morning hour. Neuville charged forward with the last of his strength, racing through the cottages to Oleg's home. Irina appeared from somewhere on his right, desperately trying to keep up, but the ranger had no time for the girl as he lowered his shoulder and barreled through the old half orc's door. Instantly roused from his sleep, Oleg shot up in bed, staring in shock at his unexpected guests.

"Get up, priest," Neuville ordered, using his free hand to hastily sweep the previous night's dinner plates and mugs from the stout table. "You have work to do."

"Thierry?" Irina shouted, rushing through the open door behind the ranger. Neuville ignored her as he gently lowered his unconscious partner to the table. Oleg finally pulled himself out of bed, and hobbled over to the unconscious man. The old priest carefully folded back the blood soaked tunic and torn chain shirt from the wound, examining the vicious injury for a moment. "Will will he be all right?" Irina asked quietly, her eyes wide as she saw Thierry's wounds.

"He will live," Oleg replied quietly. He turned to the girl. "Fetch clean water and rags. Quickly."

Irina barely nodded before she bolted through the door. Oleg gingerly ran a finger along the edge of the gash, then looked to Neuville.

"What are you waiting for?" the older ranger demanded. "Cast a spell! Heal him!"

"The force of the blow drove several rings from his armor into the wound," Oleg explained patiently as he turned to find something under his bed. "If I heal him now, they will only injure him further until someone digs them out."

"If he dies, you'll follow," Neuville threatened.

"Yes, I expected such a remark from you," the old priest said, taking a small box from beneath the bed and placing it on the table. Oleg opened the box and removed a small vial of water and two hook shaped instruments, then turned to the wound. "In this state, he likely will not move, but you'll have to hold the wound open for me," the priest directed.

Neuville hesitated for a long moment, but finally did as he was told. Carefully the half orc spread the gash open even wider, narrowing his one eye as he peered into the bloody mess. Irina raced back into the cottage with a full waterskin and several strips of cloth, but stopped as she saw the two men opening Thierry's chest.

"Do not hesitate, girl," Oleg prompted, not looking up from the injury. "Give me the water."

Irina moved forward slowly, a sickened expression coming to her face as she handed the waterskin off to the old half orc. Oleg uncorked the receptacle, and carefully poured a bit of water over the injury.

"Can you see what you're doing?" Neuville asked nervously. Oleg looked up for a moment with a faint smile.

"I only put out my right eye," the priest said with a touch of humor. He turned back to the wound, and began to pull at something deep inside the wound with the hooks. "The left one still works."

"I hope so," Neuville said. The older ranger glanced back to Irina as he heard a nauseous moan, but before he could lift his eyes from the wound the girl had rushed back outside. Oleg chucked slightly at the girl's sudden departure, flicking one broken steel ring aside and diving back into the injury.

"There are two more," the half orc noted, his attention still on the injury. "Once they have been removed, I can close the wound easily."

"He's already lost a lot of blood," Neuville said. Oleg nodded absently as he pulled a second piece of Thierry's chain shirt from the wound. "If he loses any more, he's going to die!"

"Well then, you should probably leave me to my job, rather than distract me," Oleg remarked. The old half orc pulled out a third ring, and tossed it to the side. "There. Now we may close the wound properly."

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The early morning sun was hidden once again by thick banks of clouds, but more than enough light seeped through the leaden shroud and the forest canopy to illuminate the previous night's battlefield. Almost seventy orcs from both the Cruel Blades and the Bloody Fist had fallen in combat, their mangled corpses strewn between the pine and spruce and scattered across rocky embankments. Another two dozen orcs from the Cruel Blades sifted through the battlefield, checking for survivors or looting what they could from the bodies of both their enemies and their fallen allies.

Looting bodies was of little concern to Ruslan, however. The horribly scarred tracker made his way along the northern edge of the battlefield, his eyes shifting constantly from the ground to the forest north of him. While the orcs that had fought during the night were confident that only the two humans had escaped, Ruslan was not nearly so certain. Both orcish and human tracks ranged throughout the forest, making a definite trail difficult to find, but as the orcish leader hesitated beneath the branches of a pine tree, Ruslan came across a fresh and all too obvious trail. Someone had been limping badly, retreating to the north. Several drops of blood marred the bed of needles beneath the pine next to the thick drag marks that indicated the limp. The tracker paused for a long moment, examining the marks, then turned to the orcs searching the bodies.

"Lekomir!" Ruslan shouted. The spear wielding orc stood up quickly as his name was called, and nervously glanced around. Finally, seeing Oleksandr's half brother waiting impatiently beneath the pine tree, the patrol leader made his way across the battlefield. "I thought you said none of them survived," Ruslan stated simply as Lekomir joined him.

"We killed them all," Lekomir said, taking an unconscious step backward as Ruslan turned to him. "I swear it. None of them could have survived."

"Then why are there tracks leading to the north?" Ruslan inquired coldly, gesturing to the ground. Lekomir's eyes dropped to the ground for a moment, but the patrol leader could tell little in the scuff marks and bloodstains that covered the ground where the battle had been fought during the night.

"We did not see where the humans fled," Lekomir said, growing more and more nervous in the face of Oleksandr's half brother. "They maybe they went north."

"The humans fled east," Ruslan said, pointing in that direction. Lekomir swallowed nervously. "These tracks are from an orc."

"We'll find him," Lekomir promised. The orc turned to leave, but Ruslan grabbed his arm.

"You had better find him," the disfigured orc said, holding the patrol leader's eyes with a cruel, threatening gaze. Lekomir nodded swiftly, holding back his fear, then rushed off to collect his men as soon as Ruslan had released him. For a long moment Ruslan watched the patrol leader gather his platoon, but then he started back to the eastern edge of the site. Mislav, the younger orc that had found Radomir's patrol, stood patiently beneath a large spruce, still examining the blood stains and tracks that indicated where the humans had fled.

"What about the humans?" Mislav inquired as Ruslan came to his side. Ruslan considered the question for a moment as he shouldered his double axe.

"If Lekomir is to be believed, at least two of them are worthy fighters," the orcish leader mused. "Perhaps, if they are close enough, they can be of some use to us."

"How could humans be of use to us?" Mislav asked, surprised by Ruslan's statement. The tracker turned to his assistant, a faint smirk barely visible beneath his scars and thick beard.

"We drive them north," Ruslan explained. "We give the Bloody Fist something else to chase. With any luck, they'll be too busy trying to kill a few humans to see us coming."

________________________________________________________________

"Will he wake up any time soon?"

"He will," Oleg answered simply, looking across the table to Neuville. Sitting between the old priest and Thierry's unconscious form on the bed, the older ranger's eyes constantly shifted from one side to the other as he tried to watch both the priest and his wounded friend. "He has had a long night, and between the rigors of combat and such heavy loss of blood, he'll need time to recover."

"It might be time that we don't have," Neuville warned, glancing up to where Chessa leaned against the doorframe. Outside, the afternoon had brought a steady, miserable rain to the village of Fiume, a rain that Neuville hoped would wash away the pair's tracks and bloodstains. Chessa turned to him as he spoke. "The Cruel Blades and the Bloody Fist will meet soon, and it's not going to be more than a quarter mile to our west."

"Is there any way at all that we can remain hidden here?" Chessa asked, her stern demeanor fading into deep concern. Neuville shook his head.

"I doubt it," the ranger replied. "A simple shift of the battle will bring them right through this glen. Your village is well hidden, but they would have to be blind to miss it."

"Then, we have no choice," Chessa relented, dropping her eyes to the ground. The woman said nothing for a moment, then turned back to Neuville. "Can can you lead us to Tourant?"

"We can," Neuville replied with a nod. Chessa sighed, but it was hardly the sign of relief that the ranger would have expected. "As soon as Thierry is moving again, we have to get out of here."

"I'll inform the others," Chessa said quietly, casting one last glance to Oleg. The woman paused a second longer, than turned and started out through the midday rain.

"I would think she'd be happy," Neuville said, speaking to Oleg as he turned again to Thierry.

"They do not trust you," Oleg said. Neuville turned back to him. "Oh, they know that you will not try to kill them, but they are frightened of your kingdom."

"It's a lot safer than living out here with the orcs," Neuville countered.

"But they lose their freedom," Oleg explained. "Your ways, the ways of your kingdom, are not theirs. They know that your kingdom cares about them as much as they do the orcs we may soon face."

"That's a lie," Neuville snapped, growing rapidly angry.

"Shall I tell you a story?" Oleg inquired, amiable in the face of the incensed ranger. "A story from my youth, when I was no older than your youthful companion?" Neuville's eyes still flashed with rage, but the ranger said nothing. "Very well. Only two weeks before I cut out my eye, I took part in a large raid. There were three hundred of us, all of us more than willing to shed the blood of anything that stood in our way. A small village, not unlike this one, happened to be in our way. Of course, we fell upon it with sadistic fervor. While we raped and pillaged, while we crucified the men and impaled children on spikes, do you know who we saw not half a mile in the distance? Twenty-five of your Tourant Lancers."

"And they did nothing?" Neuville guessed, his tone thoroughly skeptical.

"We were not inside your borders," Oleg explained. "I have no doubt that you wish to help these people, Neuville, but they have seen as much evil from the Kingdom of Tourant as they have the orcs of the Cruel Blade or the Bloody Fist. To them, you are the lesser of two evils, for the moment. Just as you do not trust me for my orcish blood, they do not trust your allegiance to Tourant."

Neuville said nothing for a long moment, unable to argue the point. For a long moment the ranger stared at the ground, trying to find a suitable retort.

"I guess he got you on that one, then," Thierry said quietly from the bed. Neuville spun at the sound, nearly jumping from the bench where he sat.

"Thierry!" he exclaimed, rushing to the side of the bed. Thierry smiled slightly as the older ranger came to his side. "Are you all right?"

"A little weak still, but I think I'll pull through," the younger ranger answered. Neuville's face lit into a broad smile at the statement, but the ranger quickly tried to resume a dour expression.

"Too bad," the older ranger said, though his tone clearly indicated his relief at his companion's health. Oleg chuckled behind the pair.

"I think I'll see how Chessa is doing," the old priest remarked, already halfway to the door. "After all, now that the boy is awake, we'll be leaving shortly."

"Thanks for the healing, Oleg," Thierry called out as the half orc ducked through the door. The old priest simply waved over his shoulder as he left. Thierry turned back to his companion after the priest's exit. "I guess she took your advice about leaving?" the younger ranger surmised.

"They don't have a choice," Neuville replied. Thierry nodded in agreement. "Hopefully, we can get them moving by evening."

"You want to march them in the dark?" Thierry asked.

"As soon as you can walk," Neuville confirmed. The younger ranger dropped back into the priest's bed.

"Think I'll take my time, then," Thierry said with a grin. "After all, for a half orc, he has a really soft bed."

"Don't make me come back here and get you up," Neuville threatened, though he was still having a hard time regaining his normal grumpy mood. Thierry laughed at the warning. "Try to be ready before the sun goes down," the older ranger urged, turning to the door.

"Neuville," Thierry said.

"What is it?" Neuville inquired, stopping in the doorway. Thierry hesitated for a moment.

"We could have outrun those orcs," the younger ranger said evenly. There was no hint of accusation in the voice, just a simple statement of fact.

"They were right on top of us," the older ranger reasoned, growing instantly defensive. Thierry smiled faintly.

"The first three, yes," he conceded. "But you waited too long and let the rest of them catch up to us."

"We didn't have enough time," Neuville countered, trying to convince both his ally and himself. Thierry shook his head.

"You're right," the younger ranger said, graciously dropping the argument. Neuville hesitated a moment longer, almost wanting to argue the point further with his companion, but Thierry refused to take the bait. Finally, frustrated by his ally's remarks, the older ranger turned and ducked out of the cottage.

________________________________________________________________

"Your friend has recovered?"

"He's fine," Neuville replied curtly, walking past Chessa and starting into the village. "Have everyone ready to move as soon as possible."

"It's already past midday," Chessa observed, gesturing up to the rainy sky with the long bow that she carried.

"The orcs could be here by tomorrow morning," Neuville said, quickening his pace slightly.

"Are you sure you would not rather us dig trenches and prepare a wall?" Chessa inquired, her voice icy as she started after the ranger. Neuville whirled on her, his cheeks flushed with rage.

"What does that mean?" he demanded, glaring down at the shorter woman.

"I heard what Thierry said," Chessa answered. "You risked your friend's life just to kill a few orcs."

"You were listening in on us?" Neuville asked, his face flushing rapidly with anger.

"I was bringing your friend a new bow to replace the one he lost, now that he was awake," Chessa countered, refusing to back down from the ranger's belligerent stance. The woman's voice was thick with disdainful sarcasm as she continued "If you are prepared to use us in the same way you used Thierry, then perhaps we will be better off waiting here for the orcs."

"First off, our conversation was between the two of us," Neuville snarled, looming over the woman in a further effort to forcer her back. Chessa still held her ground, her blue eyes locking unflinchingly with Neuville's glare. "And secondly, you weren't even there! You have no idea what happened out there!"

"I didn't have to be out there," Chessa said. The village leader took a bold step forward, even driving Neuville back a step with a jab of her finger against his chain shirt. "Your friend nearly died last night. He might accept your excuse for what happened, but I won't let you use what's left of my village to fight some kind of vendetta!"

"What the hell would you know about it?" Neuville demanded, shoving her hand aside. "My whole family died from an orcish raid!"

"Where do you think you are?" Chessa asked, dumbfounded by the ranger's accusation. "Look around you! Every single person here has lost friends and family to an orcish blade! My father, my brother, and my husband all died fighting the Flayed Skull! But do you see us charging stupidly into battle with the orcs! No! Stop acting like a child, Neuville! No matter how many orcs you kill, and no matter how many people die because of your immature quest for vengeance, your family will stay dead!"

"The hell with you!" Neuville screamed, turning and storming away through the camp. Tears were welling in the ranger's eyes as he started for the forest. "The hell with all of you!"

"Good riddance," Chessa snarled, watching the man charge blindly into the forest. The woman turned back to Oleg's cottage in time to see Thierry standing in the doorway. The younger ranger watched his companion for a moment, then looked to Chessa.

"Well, that's twice you put him in his place," Thierry said quietly. Chessa expected something more from the younger ranger, but instead he simply turned and disappeared back into the cottage. 

Neither one noticed the pair of dark eyes watching them from the cover of a rock formation just outside the village.


	8. Exodus

****

VII

The steady rain had increased to a virtual downpour, but he barely noticed it.

Neuville finally stopped as the dreary afternoon faded into evening, his focus on nothing more than the faint steam drifting from his mouth and nose as he stopped in a small clearing. A huge, downed pine blocked his path west, while to his east a narrow ravine carried a quick flowing stream of runoff south. The ranger had been on the move for nearly half the day, too angry to cover his tracks or take note of his progress in his hurry to put distance between himself and Fiume.

It was Chessa's fault. Neuville was convinced of that. The woman had no right to question his tactics of his convictions. He had been fighting orcs for over half of his twenty-five years, and he knew when to fight and when to run. To even suggest that he would intentionally endanger women and children, just to kill a few orcs! And then, to flatly disregard the loss of his family!

"You have no idea!" Neuville snapped, turning and spitting his words to the north. The ranger waited for a moment, glaring through the rain as though he expected an answer, then turned back south and kicked at the needles littering the forest floor.

With most of his anger already spent, Neuville finally took stock of the situation around him. He had barely kept track of his journey from Fiume, but his glaringly obvious trail would be easy to follow despite the pouring rain and the gathering darkness. The downpour had long since soaked through the ranger's cloak and clothing, finally beginning to chill him as Neuville's rage faded into fatigue. Although he had no desire to see Chessa again, Neuville slowly turned back to his path, intent on returning to Fiume before the last traces of light disappeared from the sky.

A branch snapping off to the east made him stop. Neuville turned quickly, bringing his double axe up in a defensive stance as he peered off through the gloom. The ravine still gurgled with runoff and the rain still beat down on the trees and the ground, but nothing else moved in the forest. Still Neuville kept his guard up, taking one hesitant step towards the ravine and the jagged rocks beyond.

A loud roar erupted from the rocks, stopping the ranger in his tracks. Over a dozen orcs suddenly rushed out of cover, hurling javelins across the ravine at the lone human. Neuville dropped back a step, ready to take on the threat, but the orcs seemed more content to loose a second volley of javelins on their enemy from the safety of the ravine. Four javelins thudded into the mud at Neuville's feet, chasing him back a half dozen steps, while another one glanced off of the chain mail covering his shoulder. Finally realizing that the orcs would exhaust their supply of javelins before they tried jumping the ravine, the ranger turned and rushed into the forest, following his tracks back through the forest to Fiume. Behind him, the orcs were finally jumping the fissure to give chase, but in the darkness and the rain it would be difficult at best for the raiders to track him.

________________________________________________________________

"I still think we should have killed him."

"He is of far more use to us alive, Mislav," Ruslan said, pausing momentarily in the clearing. The orcish leader peered off into the forest for a moment, but already the human had disappeared into the trees. "We know where he's going. Follow him. Stay just close enough to let him know you are behind him. I will take Valja and Sedlevit and flank him to the east."

"Yes sir," Mislav said, turning to the group.

"Mislav," Ruslan said, catching the younger orc's arm. "I want him to know we're coming. I want him to think our entire army is behind him."

"I understand," Mislav said with a nod. The younger orc hurried back to the main group, while Ruslan signaled to his pair of orcs to follow him back across the ravine.

________________________________________________________________

"Will he come back?"

"Probably," Thierry said, standing just outside Oleg's cottage and watching the heavy rain fall. Outside of the dim lamp and firelight from the other tiny homes in Fiume, the forest around the village was shrouded in inky darkness. Standing just outside of the meager protection of the cottage's overhang, Chessa pushed her soaked hair back out of her eyes as she scanned the forest for any signs of Neuville. The wayward scout had been gone for hours, and despite his nonchalant demeanor, even Thierry was beginning to worry about his partner. "He'll get tired of the rain and come back for a dry bed and a warm fire."

"If he doesn't come back soon, we'll have to give him up for dead," Chessa decided, finally turning back to Thierry. "I have too much to worry about with my own people."

"Give him a little time to cool off," Thierry said, scratching at the faint scar lines across his chest. The scars were all that remained of the younger ranger's wounds after Oleg had healed him, but Thierry was still weak and drained from the grievous injury. "You really put it into him earlier. No one ever talks that way about his family."

"I won't apologize for what I said," Chessa countered, growing instantly defensive. "He is not the only one here to have lost family to the orcs. We have no time for vendettas."

"I understand that," Thierry said, putting up his hands in a gesture of peace. The younger ranger hesitated a moment, then continued. "But Neuville didn't take his village's extermination so well. These days, hunting orcs is his entire life."

"Vengeance can quickly get someone killed here," Chessa said. "If he leads us into battle with the Cruel Blades or the Bloody Fist, he will only be killing us."

"Well, he wouldn't do that," Thierry said, standing up straight. Chessa said nothing, but turned a skeptical eye on the ranger. "The only life he'll risk on vengeance is his own."

"Or yours," Chessa added, pointing to the younger ranger's chest. Thierry smiled faintly at the assumption.

"Or mine," he conceded. "But not your life, and certainly not a child's life. You didn't see him clear out those orcs before they could get to Irina. I barely had a chance to shoot an arrow before he had them all on the ground. He may hate kids, but he certainly wouldn't give an orc even the slimmest chance to kill a child."

"I hope you are right," Chessa said. "Because we're putting our lives in your hands."

"You can trust me, if not him," Thierry said with a broad grin. Chessa allowed herself a faint smile at the ranger's remark, but then turned back to the murky forest. "So, if you don't mind my asking," Thierry inquired, continuing the conversation, "how did you end up as the village leader?"

"There are no more men," Chessa answered, giving her attention back to the ranger. "People just started looking to me."

"There's Oleg," Thierry pointed out, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. Chessa shook her head.

"He's orcish," Chessa explained. "He… some people would not follow an orc, or even a half orc."

"But they'd let him heal their wounds, or cure their diseases," Thierry concluded. Chessa looked down at the ground, her hard stare melting slightly into guilt.

"When you spend your entire life fearing orcs, it is hard to trust one, no matter how much you want to," she said quietly. Thierry nodded in understanding.

"None of us are perfect, after all," the ranger said. Chessa nodded.

"I would have given him the job," the woman said, looking up from the ground with a ghost of a smile. "Trying to keep order in this village is no fun at all."

"You do have a sense of humor," Thierry said with a grin. "A smile looks better on you than that sour scowl you always wear. Kind of pretty, if a bit waterlogged."

"Thank you," Chessa said, a trace of color coming to her cheeks. Thierry laughed slightly at her modesty, but a distant battle cry cut off any further comments from the ranger. For a long moment the two stared into the darkness, the humor vanishing instantly from their faces.

"I hope they didn't find Neuville," Thierry said, reaching back into the cottage for the long bow Chessa had brought him earlier. The village leader nodded in wordless agreement, taking her own bow from where it leaned against the cottage wall. The two stood in the rain silently, Chessa handing the ranger an arrow from her quiver in case the two archers needed to fire upon an unseen enemy.

A dark figure emerged from the barely visible treeline to the south, rushing into the village. Chessa raised her bow and quickly drew an arrow back, but Thierry quickly put a hand on her shoulder.

"Get packed," Neuville called out. A moment later the older ranger came into view, illuminated by the lamp inside Oleg's cottage. "We have problems."

________________________________________________________________

"Oleksandr will know for certain that we're coming now."

"Dobroslav has cost us the element of surprise," Libor stated, a hint of his anger playing through in his stern, flat tone. Libor and Ondrej stood just inside the shelter of a large, leaking tent as they stared into the darkness. Only moments before, Dobroslav had been helped out of the tent to receive medical attention after his flight from the Cruel Blade ambush. Libor was not normally so merciful as to let one of his subordinates go after revealing their position without so much as a cursory flogging, but Dobroslav was too good a warrior to keep out of the imminent battle. "Now the half breed will be ready for us."

"If we move quickly, we may still be able to reclaim some surprise," Ondrej said, turning to his leader. "The Cruel Blades will be heady after their initial victory."

"Oleksandr will have them ready," Libor countered, turning to the rough hewn table dominating the tent. The chieftain studied the map spread across the table for a moment, then looked back to his war chief. "He may be a bastard half breed, but he will know enough that the rest of our army was behind Dobroslav. Even now he is likely trying to outflank us to the east."

"We can slip around them to the west, then," Ondrej said. "They will not expect such a move, and we can hit them from behind as they try to flank."

"I will not risk putting our backs to the Ondava," Libor stated. "And I will not risk giving Oleksandr a clear run to Bijelo Polje. We will move through the darkness, to the southeast. When Oleksandr tries to flank, we will meet him."

"Dobroslav said there may be a human settlement to the east," Ondrej said. Libor turned a cold glare on his war chief.

"Then they had better get out of the way," the chieftain snarled, almost insulted that Ondrej had thought humans to be a potential threat. "Prepare the troops to move. We have no time to spare. I want to find the half breed before the dawn."

________________________________________________________________

"Are we ready to move?"

"Hardly," Chessa replied, turning back to Neuville as the ranger slogged through the miserable downpour flooding through Fiume. It was nearly midnight, but the normally quiet village bustled with activity as the inhabitants packed whatever they could carry. Light spilled out from open doorways as children hurried to aid their mothers with their possessions or hurried from cottage to cottage, but few words were spoken in light of the dangerous exodus that faced the village. "We'll need another hour at the least before we are ready to move."

"I don't know if we have that kind of time," Neuville said, glancing south again. Although the pouring rain drowned out any sounds the orcs might make and reduced the forest to little more than murky, indistinct shapes, the ranger was convinced that they could not be very far behind him. "They could have easily tracked me here, and could be just beyond our sight."

"If we leave now, no one will survive the trip, anyway," Chessa pointed out, pushing her soaked hair from her face. Neuville turned on the village leader, a retort coming quickly to his lips, but the scout managed to reign in his anger and frustration before he could loose a scathing comment.

"Just… tell them to hurry," Neuville said, trudging off through the mud before he could lose control of his emotions. The ranger had only taken a half dozen steps to Oleg's cottage before Thierry rushed into his path, Irina lagging only a few steps behind.

"We've got a serious problem," the younger ranger stated simply, sliding to a halt in front of his companion.

"What now?" Neuville asked.

"Orcs, to our east," Thierry answered. "Come on."

Thierry and Irina turned and hurried back across the village without waiting for a reply. Neuville followed immediately behind them, trying to figure out how the orcs could have swung up around their eastern side so quickly. As they reached the rocky outcroppings that marked Fiume's eastern boundary, Thierry turned back to him.

"Where?" Neuville asked, looking to his partner. Irina started to raise her hand to point toward the crags, but Thierry quickly grabbed her by the wrist and forced her hand back down to her side.

"If you point, they'll know we've seen them," Thierry said, explaining himself as quickly as possible without being overly stern. Then he turned to Neuville. "Almost sixty yards out, I guess," the younger ranger informed him. "They're out in the open, kneeling on top of those flat rocks just off to your right. Three of them I saw, at least."

"I see them," Neuville replied. "Have they figured out that we spotted them?"

"I don't know," Thierry answered. "They haven't done anything to show that they know we're watching them."

"Something feels wrong about this," Neuville said, shaking his head. "How did they get around us already?"

"You think they're trying to box us in?" Thierry asked. Neuville shook his head a second time, wiping some of the water streaming down his face.

"It's a lot of trouble to go through just before you go to war with the only other tribe that can match you in size," the older ranger said. He glanced up to the orcs for a moment. "They must be shifting east, trying to outflank each other. That's all I can figure."

"So what do we do?" Irina asked, glancing from Neuville to Thierry.

"We try to hook around them, to the north," Neuville answered. Thierry turned a skeptical expression on his partner. "Slip between the Cruel Blades and the Bloody Fist."

"What if those are the Bloody Fist?" Thierry inquired.

"If they were, they'd already be fighting the Cruel Blades that chased me up here," Neuville explained.

"I can sneak out there and see how many there are," Thierry said. "If it's only a couple of scouts, we can go right through them."

Neuville opened his mouth to answer, but a harsh war cry, dangerously close to the southern edge of the village, cut him off before he could form a reply. For a long moment the two rangers peered into the distance, until Neuville turned back to Thierry.

"We don't have time," the older ranger said. "Tell Chessa we have to go now."

________________________________________________________________

"Please, we have to get ready to go, now."

"We're not going, Chessa," Anatol said, standing in the doorway of his tiny cottage. The old man, one of the oldest people in the village of Fiume, hardly seemed concerned as the rest of the panicked inhabitants rushed to gather their last possessions together.

"But… Anatol, you… you can't be serious," Chessa stammered, unprepared for such a decision from any of the villagers. Anatol and his wife, Marta, had not bothered to even begin packing their belongings, oblivious to the sense of urgency and fear pervading the settlement. Marta busied herself at the small hearth opposite the door, cooking a late evening stew, while Anatol had set his carving tools and a half finished wooden figurine of a falcon on the rough hewn wooden table. "The orcs will kill you if they find you here!" the young woman blurted out, trying to convince the last of they village's elders to flee with everyone else. Anatol smiled, shaking his head slightly at the remark.

"We have lived a long, fulfilling life," the old man stated. Anatol drew a match pair of finely worked, bone handled daggers from his belt. "When the time comes, Marta and I will travel to the next world together. No orc will take us."

"Please, don't do this," Chessa begged, desperate not to lose even more of her already decimated village. "You don't have to die here. You can come with us."

"And move to a disgusting Tourant logging camp?" Marta inquired, turning away from her cooking chores. The old woman shook her head sternly. "No, child. We are too old to play games of hide and seek in the rain, Chessa."

"Anatol, Marta, please," Chessa tried one last time. Anatol placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, seeing the tears beginning to form in the young woman's eyes.

"Get going, child," the old man said, a sad smile coming to his face. "Your people need you."

"If you change your mind…" Chessa started, forcing her emotions back under control. Anatol nodded.

"We'll catch up," the old man said. Chessa gave the man a final embrace, then turned and started back through the rain into the center of the village. As Thierry and Neuville spotted her, they hurried across the village to join her.

"We can't wait any longer," Neuville said quickly. "There are orcs to our east."

"I thought you said they were coming from the south," Chessa said, growing even more concerned.

"Don't worry, those orcs are still there too," Thierry said. "If we don't move now, they'll box us in and run us over."

"But if they are to our east and south, where can we go?" Chessa asked.

"We try to swing north, around the orcs we saw to the east," Neuville explained. "With this rain, the Bloody Fist won't be marching until dawn. We can try to slip between them."

"That's our only option?" Chessa asked, not at all happy with the ranger's plan. "Try to sneak between two armies and pray that they don't notice?"

"Unless you want to work on those walls and trenches, yes," Neuville stated flatly.


	9. Trapped

****

VIII

The rain had ended just before dawn, and the last clouds had drifted north as the first lights of dawn played over the eastern horizon. As the morning advanced, the sun blazed its way into the sky, quickly warming the saturated forests and creating a thin mist as the waterlogged forest began to dry. It was a beautiful spring morning, and given any other circumstances, he would have thoroughly enjoyed the perfect day.

Neuville glanced back to the ragged column of refugees behind him, letting out a weary sigh as he appraised the group in the early morning sun. The majority of the fifty or so refugees were children, no older than the fourteen year old Irina. A half dozen women of Chessa's age were also with the group, but they lacked the hardened mindset or skill with a bow that Chessa herself showed. Other than the pair of Tourant rangers, only Chessa and Oleg had any real combat experience. Every refugee capable of holding a dagger had been given a weapon, but Neuville doubted that any of the displaced villagers would survive if they were forced into battle with the orcs.

Neuville turned back to the forest ahead of him, leaning on his double axe as he crouched under the branches of an enormous spruce. All through the night the orcs had kept only a quarter mile at most behind the refugees, threatening to overtake them if they stopped for even a moment. The terrain and weather had sapped even Neuville's strength; the refugees were beyond exhausted, barely keeping up with Neuville's agonizingly slow pace. Twice the ranger had tried to turn the column east, but a combination of losing children in the darkness and orcs skulking through the forest on his eastern flank continued to push the displaced villagers much too far north.

"Neuville."

Neuville turned slowly at the sound of Chessa's voice. The woman carefully made her way across the rocky ground to the ranger's side, pausing for a moment as she ducked under the old, dead branches ringing the bottom of the spruce.

"How are they holding up?" Neuville inquired, nodding back to the struggling refugees.

"They are exhausted," Chessa replied, pushing her rain and sweat soaked hair from her eyes. In the morning sun, the ranger could clearly see the lines of exhaustion on the woman's face. "We need to stop."

"We can't," Neuville said simply. Chessa opened her mouth to protest, but the ranger continued quickly. "The Cruel Blades are almost on top of us, and we still have to find a way around the east. If we don't, we'll be boxed in and slaughtered."

"Thierry and Irina have been watching the orcs behind us," Chessa said, pointing with the tip of her long bow to the south. "They say that the orcs have fallen behind."

"Then we should use this time to get around the orcs to our east," Neuville explained. "I know they're exhausted. I'm exhausted too. But we have to keep moving, or we'll all be killed."

"We cannot keep this pace," Chessa explained. "Already Oleg has had to carry some of the youngest. They are wet, tired and hungry. We need to stop."

Neuville hesitated for a moment, closing his eyes as he considered Chessa's statement. Neuville's legs ached from a night of handling the rocky, uneven terrain, and fatigue was starting to eat away at his senses. Still, the threat of the Cruel Blade and Bloody Fist orcs was all too real. As far as he was concerned, rest could wait until they were safely inside the border of Tourant.

The ranger glanced back behind Chessa, and saw that she was right. Neuville was ready to continue the journey, but the refugees could barely make their way over a fallen tree that blocked their path. Most of the children were already dragging their feet, tripping over roots and rocks as they trudged mindlessly forward. Finally, Neuville dropped his eyes to the ground, shaking his head in frustration.

"We can't stop long," the ranger relented. "Feed them quickly. I need to talk to Thierry, anyway."

Chessa nodded, and started back to the refugees without another word. Neuville watched her go for a moment, then glanced back to the forest east of him. He could not make out any signs of orcs for the moment, but the silence that pervaded the forest was unsettling. It was only early spring, and the long winter had taken its toll on the woodland creatures, but not even a single bird sang in the trees. It seemed as though every living creature had fled the imminent battle, leaving the displaced villagers of Fiume alone to face the orcish tribes on either side of them.

Neuville started back to the tiny group of refugees as Chessa sat them down, using the fallen pine as camouflage from their pursuers to the south. Nearly half the children had fallen asleep as soon as they were allowed to sit, while Oleg distributed food and water to the few that remained awake. As Neuville reached the old half orc, Oleg held up a chunk of bread.

"Save it for them," Neuville said simply, nodding to the refugees. Oleg smiled faintly.

"Keep your strength up," the old priest said. "If the orcs catch up to us, you will be the one to have to fend them off. So you'd better eat something."

Neuville nodded, and reluctantly took the bread from Oleg. Without another word, the ranger made his way over the fallen pine, and found Thierry crouched down behind a clump of laurel. The younger ranger turned as he heard his ally, and nodded faintly.

"I see you let them take a break," Thierry observed. Neuville nodded. "Good thing, too. We all needed it."

"We'll have plenty of time to rest once we get to Tourant," Neuville said. He held up the bread. "Where's Irina?"

"In the pine," Thierry said, pointing back to the downed tree. Irina was half propped against the tree, sound asleep with her bow in hand. "Let her sleep for a couple of minutes," Thierry said. "She's had a rough night."

"Taking on an apprentice?" Neuville inquired dryly.

"Not until she gets older," Thierry replied with a faint smile. Neuville snorted out a derisive chuckle.

"Let's take a look at the map," the older ranger said, tearing the bread into two pieces. Thierry nodded, and pulled a long, slender tube from his pack. The younger ranger pulled the map out of its case and put it down on a relatively dry rock as Neuville handed half of the bread to him.

"We should be just about dead east from Auxonne," Thierry said, pointing to the tiny logging settlement that was their destination. "But they forced us far enough north that we put some rocky ground between us and Tourant," the younger ranger continued, taking a bite out of the tough bread as he pointed to the map just west of Auxonne. "You remember this area here, right?"

"If we head any farther north, we're going to run right into Libor's troops," Neuville observed, studying the map for a moment. "It isn't too bad there."

"Not too bad?" Thierry repeated, arching an eyebrow as he looked up at Neuville. "Isn't that where you broke your leg two years ago?"

"Yes," Neuville admitted through gritted teeth, scowling at the younger ranger. The terrain had far less to do with Neuville's past injury than a bit of wet moss that the ranger had not seen, and which had simply caused him to slip and fall awkwardly on a relatively flat surface. Thierry chuckled slightly, amused by his partner's still wounded pride from the injury. "We'll make it through all right," the older ranger said, pushing the conversation forward. "But we'll have to turn east now."

Neuville opened his mouth to speak, but Chessa's sudden appearance over the fallen pine cut him short. Irina was startled awake by a sharp snap as the woman landed on the shattered twigs covering the ground, but Chessa paid the young archer no mind as she turned to Neuville and Thierry.

"What's wrong?" Thierry asked, seeing the village leader's anxious expression.

"The Bloody Fist," Chessa replied. "They're here!"

"Already?" Neuville said, astounded. Thierry turned quickly to the north, crouching behind the trunk as he tried to find the orcs that Chessa had seen. Neuville joined him almost instantly, peering over the heads of the silent refugees trying to remain unseen.

"They must have marched right through the night," Thierry whispered, moving over slightly to allow Irina a view over the trunk. It took only a fraction of a second for Neuville to locate the Bloody Fist orcs, moving quickly through the brush with little regard for their surroundings. For the moment their speed kept the orcs from noticing the refugees, but the barbarians were heading straight for the displaced villagers. "We are in serious trouble."

"What do we do?" Irina asked fearfully, turning to Thierry.

"We'll never be able to get everyone together before they reach us," Chessa said, her eyes still on the rapidly advancing orcs.

"We have to move, right now," Neuville decided, pointing toward the forest to his right. Chessa turned to him, her eyes widening with surprise. "Get everyone up and moving east, as quickly as possible."

"I just told you, we'll never make it!" the woman repeated.

"We can't stay here," Neuville said, shaking his head in frustration. The ranger had very little hope that the group would be able to outrun the orcs, but there was no other choice. "They're going to march right over us, and we'll never be able to fight them off. We make for the east as quickly as possible, and pray that they don't chase for very long."

"I'll slow them down," Thierry said, nocking an arrow on his bowstring.

"I'll help," Irina added, trying to sound brave. Neuville shook his head, ready to protest the young pair's decision.

"They have bows," Chessa pointed out, cutting Neuville off before he could argue with his younger ally. "You must lead, Neuville, in case the other orcs are still to our east."

"Okay," Neuville said, reluctantly complying with the plan. The older ranger turned to Thierry. "Try not to get held up."

"And you don't slow down," Thierry countered with a bit of a smile.

______________________________________________________

"We did not march all night just to hide."

"Patience, Dainis, patience," Ruslan said quietly, his eyes on the forest to his north. Although the refugees had moved with more speed than Ruslan had expected, Dainis and more than a hundred orcs had been able to overtake the fleeing humans with considerable ease. "It won't be long now," the disfigured orc said, gesturing to the north. "Libor's troops cannot be far off."

"We could overtake them and slaughter them with only a quarter of my men!" Dainis protested angrily. He had forced his men through a night of pouring rain and treacherous terrain with a promise of combat by the dawn, but so far the orcs had come across nothing but an abandoned village and a pair of old humans that had taken their own lives long before the orcs had reached them.

"But then we would waste our resources killing them," Ruslan countered easily. Dainis snorted in disgust.

"We are hiding from humans," the war chief protested. Ruslan chuckled.

"They know we are here," the ranger informed his comrade. "They know Mislav is to their east. The only reason they are still running north is because they know we are here. And soon, because of them, we will know exactly where Libor is. Why should we use our own orcs to probe Libor's defenses, when we can use the humans?"

"This is cowardly," Dainis grumbled. "If your brother knew we were hiding from a pathetic group of humans-"

"He would approve of the tactic," Ruslan cut in, his voice growing stern and cold. The two orcish commanders locked icy gazes for a moment, neither willing to back down. "If your men break cover and attack the humans, you will be the one to pay for their lack of discipline," Ruslan warned, edging forward slightly. "The Bloody Fist is as strong as we are, and they have Predrag. We will take any advantage we can get."

"We will wait," Dainis muttered, turning away from Ruslan in submission. "But the One Eye will not favor this tactic."

"The One Eye won't care who is fighting, as long as there is battle," Ruslan said, smiling faintly at the war chief's comment. Dainis turned a spiteful gaze back on Oleksandr's brother, but before he could form a retort a booming war cry shattered the morning silence.

"The Bloody Fist," Dainis concluded, turning northward.

"You see, Dainis?" Ruslan said, his smile growing wider. "You didn't have to wait long, after all."

______________________________________________________

Even as they started to run, he realized they would never make it.

Neuville barely hazarded a glance over his shoulder as he sprinted to the east, scrambling over the rocky ground and dodging trees in his haste to reach some kind of safety. Behind him, the women and children of Fiume struggled desperately to keep up with the ranger in their race to escape the orcs of the Bloody Fist. Trailing only a few steps behind the refugees, Thierry backpedaled as he loosed arrow after arrow at the charging barbarians, while Irina tried to steady her nerves enough to stand and fire. In the middle of the refugees, Oleg continued to urge the refugees forward, carrying a child in one arm and waving his great axe with the other. Chessa stayed between the refugees and the charging orcs, firing shots from her own bow even as she ducked between the trees and evaded the first incoming javelins. But despite the best efforts of the refugees and the two rangers, the orcs were closing far too rapidly for the refugees to have even the slimmest hopes of escape.

Neuville glanced quickly around as he ran, hoping for some kind of natural defensive position, but nothing appeared to his quick search. To the north, the rocky ground fell away in a series of low ledges, difficult to cross but of little value as a fortification. To the east, the ground rose slightly, but not enough to give any kind of defensive cover. Neuville turned to the south in desperation, gasping out a plea to Pelor for some kind of miracle.

A rocky outcropping stood just to the southeast, more a jumble of tall boulders than anything else, but possibly large enough to accommodate the refugees. The lowest of the rocks jutted almost six feet up out of the ground, while the tallest points of the formation were nearly twenty feet into the air and partially shielded by the pines growing around them. If the refugees could reach the tops of the boulders, they would at least have a somewhat defensible position against the orcs. And while the ranger was less than happy about putting the villagers in a position where they would be quickly surrounded, one glance over his shoulder showed him that it was only a matter of seconds before the Bloody Fist overtook the remnants of Fiume. If they had to stand and fight, they would do it with every advantage they could find.

"Chessa!" Neuville shouted, slowing only faintly as he tried to get the woman's attention. Chessa turned even as she drew another arrow back. "South! Turn south! Follow me!"

Chessa loosed her arrow, then quickly began to herd her villagers south. Neuville turned and sprinted straight for the rocks, his attention focused on his last hope for survival.

He had only taken a dozen steps when he spotted a dozen more orcs in the trees just to the right of the rocks.

Neuville raised his double axe, ready to fight his way through them, but the orcs ahead of him stunned the ranger as they dropped back slightly into the forest. Neuville slowed only the faintest bit, expecting some kind of ambush from the new group of orcs, but suddenly everything fell into place. The orcs had forced them north to use them as a first wave against Libor's troops. Neuville skidded to a stop and turned back to Chessa as the village leader hurtled a chunk of stone jutting from the ground.

"What are you doing?" the woman demanded as she reached the ranger. "They're right behind us!"

"Get everyone up on those rocks," Neuville ordered, pointing to the formation ahead of him. Chessa's eyes went wide with shock. "It's the most defensible position we'll find."

"You want to stand and fight?" she demanded, incredulous.

"We don't have a choice!" Neuville explained quickly. "Oleksandr forced us north, and now we're trapped in a vise that's about to crush us!"

"If we stay here, we'll be slaughtered!" Chessa countered angrily.

"Maybe not, if I can draw the Cruel Blades into the fight," Neuville said. Chessa's mouth dropped open, but before she could question Neuville's logic the ranger had turned to chase after the fleeing Cruel Blade orcs.

______________________________________________________

Each arrow dropped an orc, but each moment taken to aim and fire brought the orcs closer to him.

Thierry turned and sprinted a half dozen yards as he drew another arrow from his quiver, finding himself running dangerously low on ammunition as he spun and fired again. His arrow slammed into one orc's chest and the warrior pitched forward, but a hundred of his comrades simply swarmed past the fallen barbarian or drew their arms back to launch a new volley of javelins. Irina drew an arrow of her own and quickly tried to fire, but the girl's fear and unsteady hands sent the missile high and wide of its intended target.

"Irina! Run!" Thierry ordered, shoving his way through a clump of brambles in his attempts to stay ahead of the charging berserkers. The girl needed no more prompting, turning and racing away from the oncoming tide of orcs as Thierry wheeled and fired one last, poorly aimed shot at his pursuers. With his supply of arrow nearly exhausted and the orcs only a dozen yards away, Thierry turned and sprinted for all he was worth, following Irina as she bolted through the forest. Javelins clattered along the rocky ground around him or slammed into trees on his sides, but somehow Thierry escaped the first barrage unscathed. The ranger pushed himself for every last ounce of speed he could muster, praying that the rest of the refugees had been given enough time to outrun the orcs bearing down on them.

Instead, he found them climbing up onto a rocky outcropping.

Thierry nearly tripped as he stared in shock at the bizarre tactic. If their hope was to escape the orcs, taking refuge in a jumble of boulders was the last thing they should have done. Standing at the base of the formation, Chessa urged her charges on with all the speed they could muster, while Oleg helped those that were too young to climb themselves to reach the top of the mound. Neuville was nowhere to be seen among the refugees. As the younger ranger slowed to gape at the move, Irina turned back to him with fear in her eyes

"Thierry, what's going on?" the girl asked, realizing the apparently suicidal maneuver. Thierry said nothing to the girl as he renewed his sprint, reaching Chessa's side as she pushed one young boy into the rocks.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded, grabbing Chessa by the shoulder. "We'll be torn apart here!"

"Tell your friend, wherever he went!" Chessa snapped back, frustrated to the point of rage with the pair of rangers. The village leader turned quickly and grabbed Irina by the arm, stopping the girl before she could try to fire another shot at their pursuers. "Get up the rocks and fire from the top!"

"Where is Neuville?" Thierry asked, furious with his friend for deciding on such a tactic and at Chessa for listening. The village leader turned to Thierry, opening her mouth for a livid retort, but a new, furious, war cry stopped her before she could answer. The two turned first to the Bloody Fist orcs, but the orcs there were slowing instead of rushing forward for the kill. Thierry turned first, realizing that the war cry had come from the south instead of the north, but for a moment all the ranger could do was stare in shock. Chessa turned as she noticed the ranger's dumbfounded gaze, but for a moment the village leader could barely voice a sentence.

"There he is," she finally said, pointing with the tip of her bow. Neuville had finally reappeared from the forest, sprinting for all he was worth. Behind him, over a hundred orcs bearing the Cruel Blade standard were rapidly gaining ground on the ranger.

"Up on the rocks," Thierry said simply.


	10. Full Scale War

****

IX

"What happened?"

"We have joined the battle," Dainis said smugly, turning on Ruslan as the disfigured tracker joined him. Only a few dozen yards ahead, the war chief's vanguard force had slammed into the Bloody Fist's advance, stopping the enemy tribe dead in its tracks. Caught on a rocky formation in the middle of the forest, the human refugees that Ruslan had wanted to engage the enemy first were scrambling for cover, dodging stray javelins or firing down at any orc that tried to take the high ground from them. Dainis hefted his huge hammer over his shoulder, ready to join his troops in battle. "Now we will crush them," the war chief predicted, eager to enter combat himself.

"I gave specific orders not to attack until the human s were dead!" Ruslan shouted, grabbing Dainis by the arm. The war chief whirled back on Oleksandr's brother, shaking free of Ruslan's grip and drawing his maul back to strike his antagonist.

"They attacked us!" the war chief snarled, advancing a step on Ruslan as the tracker brought his double axe to bear. "My orcs will not run from a human, no matter what you say!"

"Your orcs have cost us the element of surprise!" Ruslan shouted furiously, refusing to back down from the war chief. "Oleksandr and Vlastimir have not even arrived with the rest of our troops! We could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers before they reach us!"

"Enough!" Dainis bellowed. "I am the war chief! Not you! And I say we join battle now!"

"It would appear that we have already joined the battle," a new voice said, interrupting the brewing fight. Ruslan and Dainis turned to the speaker, their weapons dropping slightly as Oleksandr and Vlastimir joined the pair. Behind the two leaders, the main force of the Cruel Blades swarmed forward to meet the Bloody Fist tribe, but the chieftain's attention was focused on his two belligerent subordinates. "Imagine my surprise to find two of my most capable leaders on the verge of killing each other."

"He sprang my trap too early!" Ruslan snapped furiously, pointing with his axe to Dainis.

"He would have us hide from humans!" Dainis countered, equally incensed.

"Regardless, now is not the time to fight with each other," Oleksandr said, his voice growing stern as he pointed to the battle raging only a dozen yards away. The chieftain's voice rose as he continued, until he was practically screaming at his subordinates. "Would you have the Bloody Fist see us kill our own leaders in the very midst of battle? You have both dishonored me and the tribe!"

Ruslan and Dainis fell silent under their chieftain's wrath. Oleksandr paused for a moment, his rage at his belligerent underlings holding his face in a grotesque snarl.

"It seems the humans have worked in our favor," Vlastimir put in, ignoring the others in favor of appraising the battlefield. Oleksandr, Ruslan, and Dainis followed the warrior's line of sight to the rocks where the refugees had taken sanctuary. "They engaged Libor's skirmishers for us, then took the high ground from them."

"The humans are of no concern to us," Oleksandr said, irritated by the constant references to the weaklings that had been caught in the battle. "If they are still alive after we have defeated Libor, then we will deal with them, but our fight is with the Bloody Fist. Let Libor try to take the rocks from them if he wants."

Oleksandr turned without another word, storming back to the front line to take command of his troops. Dainis and Ruslan exchanged cold glares, but Vlastimir interrupted the pair before they could speak.

"Attend to your orcs," Vlastimir ordered sternly. "We have a war to fight."

______________________________________________________

"Why are we attacking humans?"

"They appeared in front of us," Dobroslav explained quickly, taking an unconscious step back with Ondrej's furious inquiry. "We thought we would be able to finish them quickly-"

"Your stupidity with these humans has cost us the element of surprise twice!" Ondrej shouted, backing the slightly smaller Dobroslav into a tree. With no place to run, Dobroslav could do little more than flinch as Libor's war chief grabbed him by the throat. "You have cost good orcs their lives and put our victory in doubt!"

"But we drove them back into the Cruel Blades, exposing them too!" Dobroslav pointed out, trying to dispel some of Ondrej's wrath. "They also lost the element of surprise!"

"Pray that you prove yourself to the One Eye this day," Ondrej snarled, leaning in close to Dobroslav's face. "Or you will face Predrag."

Dobroslav nodded anxiously, his face growing ashen at the thought of being turned over to the old priest. Without another word the orc turned and raced back into the battle, letting out a piercing war cry as he slammed into the Cruel Blade vanguard. Ondrej watched him for a moment, almost hoping that the incompetent scout leader's head would be taken from his shoulders, but then the war chief turned back to find Libor among the frenzied orcs pushing forward to the battle.

The Bloody Fist's chieftain was, as Ondrej expected, just behind the advancing front lines, already directing his orcs and receiving reports from all along the battle line. Pushing through the throngs of barbarians, the war chief made his way to his leader's side, joining him just as a new wave of Cruel Blade orcs tried to push the lines back to the north.

"Have we gained the eastern flank?" Libor demanded, turning to his aide as the war chief reached him.

"The humans have taken it," Ondrej replied, unable to keep the disgust from his voice.

"What humans?" Libor asked furiously. "There are no humans in this battle!"

"Oleksandr pushed a displaced village north, into our ranks," Ondrej explained. "Dobroslav's skirmishers chased them back and pinned them on a rock formation at the eastern end of the line."

"We are fighting orcs, not humans!" Libor bellowed. The explosive outburst nearly threw Ondrej back, but the war chief held his ground in the face of Libor's rage. "I want no more discussion of humans! Take the eastern flank, or we will be destroyed!"

"We can circle around the humans, and let them keep the high ground," Ondrej surmised, studying the battle to the east. Already Oleksandr's troops were attempting the same move, largely ignoring the humans atop the rock formation in their hurry to outflank the Bloody Fist. "But it will not be easy. Oleksandr's orcs have the momentum.

"Then take the momentum from them!" Libor shouted. "Don't let them outflank us!"

"As you wish," Ondrej said, bowing slightly. As the war chief hurried back to the eastern flank, Libor turned back to the orcs still arriving on the battlefield.

"Predrag!" the chieftain shouted, seeing the old priest already heading in his direction. Predrag moved easily through the crowds, as the orcs shifted constantly to allow their spiritual leader to the forefront. As Predrag reached him, Libor bowed his head slightly. 

"What troubles you?" Predrag inquired, his one good eye already wandering to the wild melee. The Bloody Fist's warriors were once again driving their foes south, but it was a temporary push at best.

"The humans have cost us our advantage and Oleksandr is beginning to turn our flank," Libor informed the old priest quickly. "Does the One Eye still favor us?"

"Who gains the One Eye's favor remains to be seen," Predrag said, giving his full attention to the chieftain. "We must fight bravely to gain his full vision."

"Our flank is being turned!" Libor repeated, pointing to the east. "Our bravery alone will not carry us if they outflank us!"

"Then I will see to it that they do not turn your flank," Predrag said evenly. Without another word, the old priest turned away from Libor, striding purposefully to the east.

______________________________________________________

"Get back from the side!"

Neuville reacted only just in time, grabbing a young boy's shirt and hauling him away from the edge of the rocks before a half dozen javelins clattered across the stone. All around the small formation, the two tribes of frenzied orcs rushed headlong into battle, throwing themselves at each other with no regard for their own safety. Even Neuville, who had seen firsthand the suicidal bravery and insane bloodlust of the mountain orcs many times in the past, was momentarily taken aback by the sheer ferocity of both tribes. On one side, Oleksandr's Cruel Blades were spurred on by their hunger, while religious fervor fueled the Bloody Fist to more and more brutal counters. Caught in the middle of it all, the ranger could only be thankful that the orcs had, for the moment, ignored the small band of humans in their hurry to slaughter each other. Whenever one tribe began to climb the rocks, a lethal volley of javelins from the other tribe would devastate the climbers and force what few survived back to the ground. Only a handful of orcs had even come close to reaching the top, and those that did had met up with Neuville's keen double axe or Thierry and Chessa's precise arrows. As long as the battle continued to rage on the ground, the humans would be relatively safe.

Of course, relatively safe was turning out to be extremely dangerous.

Neuville rushed along the edge of the rocks again, chopping down with his axe as another barbarian managed to evade his foes' javelins and find the top of the formation. The warrior had only just pulled himself onto the top when the ranger struck, shearing off a large chunk of the intruder's skull and pitching him back into the chaos at the base of the rocks. Already moving to dodge a pair of javelins cast up out of the battle, Neuville barely took notice of the fact that his last kill had been a full blooded human bearing the ritual tattoos of the Cruel Blade orcs.

"Neuville!" Thierry shouted, keeping as low as he could while rushing across the rocks. Neuville turned to the younger ranger, dropping quickly to his chest as a flurry of javelins, arrows, and even a barrage of thrown rocks arced over the rocks. A quick, high pitched screech of pain issued from the mass of refugees huddled in the center of the rocks, but Neuville could do little more then ask Pelor for a bit of good fortune as his ally joined him. "I'm almost out of arrows," Thierry reported. "So's Irina. Chessa has maybe a dozen or so left. You have any bright ideas?"

"Switch to hand weapons," Neuville suggested grimly. 

"I was hoping you'd have a better idea," Thierry said, forcing a smile to his exhausted features.

"Well, can you fly?" Neuville asked, sounding almost serious. Thierry paused for only a moment before breaking down into laughter.

"I can't believe this," the younger ranger said, reigning in his mirth. "We're about to die, and you finally come up with a sense of humor!"

"Save the arrows," Neuville said, giving his joke only the faintest smile before continuing, "but kill whoever reaches the top. Even if they're human."

"I saw them," Thierry said, his mood darkening with the mention of human barbarians fighting alongside the orcs. "Not with the Bloody Fist, but with the Cruel Blades." The younger ranger paused for a moment, glancing back to Irina, then continued. "I'll push Irina back with the others. Chessa might be able to help, but at least they seem more intent on killing each other for the moment."

"Keep at it," Neuville said, hefting his double axe and beginning to turn back to the northern end of the rocks.

"Hey Neuville," Thierry called out. The older ranger turned back. "Good luck."

"You too," Neuville said. The two rangers split up again, Neuville taking the north end while Thierry hurried to the south side. The younger ranger had only just sent Irina back to the huddled refugees when a terrible grinding noise ripped through the din of the battle. Thierry tumbled forward as the ground beneath him gave way, falling on top of Irina and nearly driving the pair through the terrified villagers, but Neuville barely saw the pair. His eyes were focused instead on the rock formation itself, watching in stunned disbelief as a huge slab of stone tore free of the outcropping. Impossibly, the gigantic boulder ground its way into a roughly humanoid shape, even forming a pair of sparkling, crystalline eyes and a gaping, toothless maw.

"Pelor's sunny ass," Neuville whispered in disbelief, locking eyes with the enormous elemental.

______________________________________________________

With the battle raging around him, Dainis had long since forgotten his argument with Ruslan. The Cruel Blades' war chief strode across the chaotic battle lines, refusing to stay in the rear to command his orcs. All around him the Cruel Blades were tearing into the Bloody Fist, slowly beginning to push Libor's tribe back even as they moved to outflank their enemy. Dainis himself roared forward into personal combat whenever he could, and his magnificent, blessed great hammer had already collected a sticky paste of blood and bone fragments along its rune covered head of black steel. Already the Bloody Fist orcs, veteran warriors incensed by Predrag's fiery tirades, were beginning to give the war chief a wide berth, and those few that came too close quickly fell to the powerful berserker's thunderous blows. As Dainis' orcs pushed forward, the Bloody Fist began to fall back before them, giving the war chief the room he needed to turn Libor's flank. As long as the hole remained open for him, Dainis would be able to easily turn Libor's flank and crush the Bloody Fist between his flankers and Oleksandr's main force. A dozen or more of Dainis' most trusted orcs rushed forward to exploit the breach in the Bloody Fists' defenses, charging along the border of the rock outcropping where the human cowered in fear.

The outcropping itself suddenly seemed to come to life, however, startling the Cruel Blade orcs into momentary paralysis. The barbarians stared up in shock as a monstrous elemental, at least as tall as the highest peaks of the outcropping, slowly turned on them with a loud, cavernous rumble. With a single swat of one huge, stony fist, the elemental hurled a pair of spear wielding orcs into the side of the rock formation.

"Don't just stand there!" Dainis ordered, raising his hammer and rushing forward. "Attack it!"

Dainis' order galvanized the warriors, but it was already too late. A pair of orcs threw themselves at the monster, but their blows had little effect on the stone that comprised the elemental's body. With slow, ponderous determination, the monster brought its fingerless fists together, slamming them down on one orc at its feet and driving the unfortunate warrior straight into the ground. Another orc lunged at it from the side, but the elemental simply appeared to sink partway into the ground and ram the barbarian into the rock formation in a single, devastating motion. From the top of the outcropping, a human tumbled to the forest floor, but the poor child could barely regain his feet before the elemental mindlessly crushed him beneath one fist. While his orcs had fought with fanatical bravery against the Bloody Fist, the unstoppable earthen juggernaut was quickly beginning to rout the Cruel Blades.

Without another thought Dainis shot forward, his thick braid trailing behind him like a pennant as he raised his maul and met the elemental head on. The war chief leapt up as he drove in on the thing, slamming his maul into the monster's lower chest with a thunderous crash. The elemental staggered beneath the mighty blow as stone cracked under the weapon's impact, but the alien creature quickly regained its composure. Dainis had only just landed on the ground when the elemental sank down and lowered what appeared to be its shoulder, blasting the wind from the war chief's lungs as it hurled him back into the Cruel Blade lines. Gasping for breath but refusing to show weakness to any enemy, Dainis surged back into the fray, this time remaining low and striking at one of the elemental's stubby legs. Once again the war chief's maul thundered home against the creature, this time causing it to lurch slightly as it nearly lost its balance. Still the earth elemental plodded onward, forcing even Dainis to back off a step as the thing marched slowly south.

______________________________________________________

"The One Eye must favor us. Even the earth battles for the Bloody Fist!"

"Stop gawking and keep moving!" Ondrej shouted, turning back on the awe struck soldiers following him around the rocks. The war chief himself was elated with the earth elemental's appearance, no doubt summoned by Predrag, but the monster would not last forever. Already Dainis, the feared war chief of the Cruel Blades, had engaged the monster in combat, and each crushing blow the massive orc delivered sent cracks through the alien creature's stone body. Spurred on by their leader's relentless assault against the elemental, the rest of Dainis' men were rushing back to the fight. It was only a matter of time now before the elemental collapsed under the sheer number of orcs swarming around its legs and hacking at it with axes and hammers. "Turn the flank! Quickly!"

Ondrej's orcs rushed forward to take the eastern edge of the fight, but already it was too late. With a final, agonized rumble, the earth elemental slid sideways and crumbled to a heap of broken stones, shearing of even more of the rock formation with its death throes. The collapsing monster opened a new route for the Cruel Blades, and Dainis was quickly leading his own orcs through the breach. Ondrej's berserkers surged forward, screaming with bloodlust as they tried to cut around the Cruel Blades and take the flank. Ondrej himself took the lead, shrieking in rage and lifting his huge morningstar as he stormed forward.

The two forces met with a thunderous crash. Ondrej's morningstar slammed down on the first orc he met, literally driving his foe's skull down into his chest. The Bloody Fist war chief refused to slow as his rage overtook him, hurling his slain enemy aside with his shield to meet the next orc head on. That one lunged forward with a long, serrated spear, but Ondrej accepted a glancing blow from the weapon to close in and crushed that orc's skull with a powerful backhand stroke of his heavy weapon. All around him orcs from both sides ripped and tore at each other; hammers and maces smashed bones while spears ran through their enemies and exploded through the backs of the impaled. Swords and axes chopped through wooden shields and ripped through limbs with equal ease, but even the badly wounded orcs fought on with a stubborn refusal to die. Through it all Ondrej could not be stopped, until his momentum had carried the frenzied war chief to his goal.

Dainis surged out of the swirling melee as Ondrej turned on him, the Cruel Blade's gigantic maul slamming down on Ondrej's shield and smashing the wooden device to splinters. Ignoring his lost shield, the Bloody Fist war chief rammed forward with all his strength, dropping his shoulder into Dainis' gut where the elemental had struck him before. Dainis let out a roar of pain as fractured ribs finally broke beneath Ondrej's assault, but the pain only drove him to greater heights of frenzy. Dainis leapt back to his feet as Ondrej's morningstar crashed into the ground, shattering the rock where the Cruel Blade had fallen but missing its intended target. Dainis whirled quickly, bringing his maul around in a devastating arc that caught Ondrej in the side, hurling him through the battle until he slammed into the base of the formation. Gasping in pain, the Bloody Fist's war chief regained his senses in time to see Dainis racing forward, his maul raised to strike the killing blow.

Ondrej reacted in the nick of time, kicking off of the rock face and throwing himself forward at the last possible moment. With his momentum carrying him forward, Dainis could not react to the sudden move; his maul thundered into the rocks even as Ondrej shoved his morningstar forward like a spear into the Cruel Blade war chief's already damaged ribs. The two orcs tumbled back into the swirling melee, bouncing off of dead and dying warriors from both tribes as they kicked and clawed at each other. Dainis' maul dropped from his grasp, but the Cruel Blade simply forgot the weapon as he tried to rip Ondrej's morningstar free of the war chief's grip and bit down on the Bloody Fist's exposed neck. Screaming in pain, the Bloody Fist war chief ripped free of his opponent's teeth and tusks, giving up his morningstar as he clutched at the wound spurting blood from his neck.

"I kill you with your own weapon!" Dainis shouted, charging forward with Ondrej's morningstar raised over his head. The Bloody Fist war chief stumbled backwards, turning and ripping a pair of javelins free of an orcish corpse. The Cruel Blade slammed into Ondrej as he turned back, jamming his two hastily claimed weapons forward as a single spear just as Dainis reached him. The force with which Dainis brought the morningstar down shattered Ondrej's shoulder, but the attack ultimately did more damage to the Cruel Blade. Dainis fell backwards as he stared down, dropping Ondrej's weapon as he feebly clutched at the pair of javelins that had pierced his heart and lungs. The Bloody Fist war chief crawled forward to retrieve his weapon, but Ondrej was far too badly wounded to even attempt to capitalize on the advantage Dainis' death had created. Both the Bloody Fist and Cruel Blade tribes fell back the slightest bit, still locked in deadly battle but unwilling to try another flanking attempt against their enemies.

______________________________________________________

With the furious battle taking place at the foot of the rocks, she had hoped the orcs would ignore the humans for the time being. Instead, both sides only seemed more intent on reaching the summit.

Chessa raced across the edge of the formation, driving down with her short sword through the exposed shoulder of an orc that had nearly reached the top. The village leader ripped her sword free in a spray of blood and dashed ahead, nearly colliding with Thierry as the younger ranger rushed towards the same orc that she had seen. With their supply of arrows nearly depleted and the battle only just beginning, the two archers had abandoned their bows in favor of hand weapons, trying to conserve their ammunition for when it would be most needed. Irina and Teodora had both been set to the task of gathering up any javelins that landed on the rocks or firing on orcs that got past the three defenders, while Neuville protected the entire northern edge of the formation himself. Chessa's entire body ached from the strain of the forced march through the night and the wild melee she was now caught in, but the woman refused to slow even the slightest bit in defense of her charges. Oleg alone was left to keep the refugees together, keeping them as close to the center of the formation as possible and using what little cover the rocks provided to protect them from the javelins and arrows streaking over the makeshift defenses. Still moving on nothing but adrenaline, Chessa sprinted again to the western edge of the rocks, launching a vicious kick that cracked solidly into a half orc raider's jaw and sent him flying off of the wall to crash into the battle below. Chessa herself cursed in pain as she hopped back from the edge, certain that she had broken her own toe with the force of her kick. Still the woman turned quickly, ignoring the flare of pain as she sought her next target.

The battle died down as suddenly as it had started. For the moment, no more orcs attempted to scale the rock formation, while the previously chaotic, bloody battle had subsided to more measured feints and careful skirmishes. Below her, a cadre of Bloody Fist orcs helped a badly wounded comrade away from the dying battle, while the Cruel Blades carried off the slain champion that had defeated the earth elemental for them. Chessa turned back to Neuville, thinking that the orcs might have focused on only one side, but the battered, bloody ranger had simply dropped to one knee in exhaustion as he leaned on his double axe. Slowly the village leader limped over to the man's side, looking down on the bodies scattered across the blood soaked forest floor. Neuville barely looked up as she came to his side.

"Is it over?" Chessa asked quietly, watching the Bloody Fist orcs retreat slightly. To the south, the Cruel Blades had similarly withdrawn, but neither side seemed ready to leave the battlefield. Neuville stood up slowly, considering the corpses littering the rocks, but a renewed series of war cries rose from both sides as the orcs regrouped and charged again.

"Not by a long shot," the ranger said, preparing to meet the next rush.


	11. The First Night

**X**

The last faint glow behind the Khairathi Mountains barely illuminated the battlefield. The Cruel Blades and the Bloody Fist had spread out on a line nearly a mile and a half long, but as night descended the combat had fallen off to intermittent skirmishes. Hundreds of orcs had already fallen in battle, littering the rocky forest all along the front, but the surviving barbarians were far too exhausted to collect the fallen.

The moans of the dying on the battlefield, however, barely reached Libor as the orcish chieftain moved back through the lines, his chain shirt and wide bladed spear covered in blood and grime from a day filled with vicious combat. Libor's face remained stony and emotionless, showing no grief despite the loss of many fine warriors from his tribe. They had fought well, and each of the fallen had earned his place in the great feast halls where the One Eye celebrated past bravery and great battles in the afterlife. The orcs that watched Libor pass would no doubt draw on their leader's strength, allowing their own mourning to wait until the Cruel Blades were driven from the battlefield.

The orcish chieftain crossed a low gully behind his tribe's front lines, heading for a crude icon of a one eyed orc holding a spear. While nowhere near as imposing as the Idol of Gruumsh located in the temple at Bijelo Polje, the icon that Predrag's acolytes had constructed once the battle had been joined would be more than acceptable as a place of temporary worship. Already some of the youngest acolytes were lighting a pair of black metal braziers on either side of the icon, providing a dull, reddish glow to the makeshift temple as what little light remained in the sky faded from existence. Slowly Libor stepped in front of the idol, dropping to his knees and bowing before the statue.

"Grant us strength in this time of need," the orcish chieftain prayed, whispering the words to the ground as he kissed the bare stones. "See us victorious in your grand vision, and acknowledge the bravery of those who have fallen. May they feast with you this night in your great halls. Reward them for the courage they have shown, and let their spirits join with their comrades as we continue this battle in your name."

With his simple prayer finished, Libor stood once more and looked slowly around him. Other orcs were filtering back to the icon; upon seeing their leader fall before the icon in prayer, many were emboldened to whisper their own prayers before the One Eye. Some few would likely even cut out their eyes, hoping that imitation of their deity would grant them strength in the days to come. Predrag would oversee the ritual blinding personally, accepting each eye as sacrifice to Gruumsh and invoking his blessing on each warrior. Libor watched the first worshipers approach the idol for a long moment, nodding in quiet approval as one particularly young barbarian glanced to the chieftain. Finally, Libor continued his journey, walking past the idol to a small, black tent set just beyond the statue.

Predrag stepped out of the tent just before Libor reached it, little more than a shadow against the heavy darkness that had fallen across the forest. While, for the first time in many nights, no clouds marred the sky, the moon had not yet risen and the stars were far too weak to penetrate the dense canopy. A whispered word from the old priest, however, conjured up a nimbus of white fire around the leaf shaped tip of the holy man's spear.

"Know that your fallen warriors have joined the One Eye this night," Predrag said quietly, his raspy voice holding a tone of condolence.

"They fought bravely," Libor acknowledged. "They will be remembered here."

"As they should," Predrag said. "But I do not think this is why you came to call on me. A heavy weight rests upon your shoulders."

"I worry that the One Eye has found fault with us," Libor said hesitantly. The chieftain glanced over his shoulder, making certain that no one was nearby. "Ondrej has slain Dainis, but we do not have as many warriors as Oleksandr."

"I knew of this before we left Bijelo Polje," Predrag said. "The One Eye still favors you, Libor. Do not despair. Have your orcs bring me as many bodies as they can from the battlefield. Human or orc, it matters not. Come the dawn, you will have more warriors."

______________________________________________________

"How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted," Chessa said quietly, not looking back to Neuville as the ranger joined her. Below her, the western face of the rock formation dropped off sharply to the ground, joining a pile of rocks that had once been the Bloody Fist tribe's earth elemental. In the center of the formation, the rest of the refugees huddled together in the darkness, trying to stay warm in the cold night. Around them, the battlefield remained largely silent, but the occasional moans of pain from badly injured orcs drifted up from the darkness. Neuville hesitated behind her for a moment, perhaps waiting for her to say something more, before continuing.

"You should get some rest," he said. Chessa finally turned back to the ranger, regarding the haggard man for a moment.

"I could say the same to you," the village leader pointed out. Neuville was indeed in bad shape; his face clearly showed his fatigue, and his chain shirt had been damaged or even torn in several places. Blood had dried along the ranger's right arm, evidence of a javelin strike to his shoulder. But despite Neuville's awful condition, Chessa had a feeling that she looked even worse. Every inch of her body ached from the day's exertions, and even now she fought to remain awake to stand guard over her charges.

"Someone has to stay up and make sure no one tries to kill us through the night," Neuville explained, practically answering her thoughts. "I'll wake Thierry in a little while, and then I'll get some sleep."

"I'll stand watch with you, then," Chessa said. "That way, even if one of us falls asleep, another is still awake to stand watch."

"I won't fall asleep," Neuville stated.

"Neither will I," Chessa said. For some time the two kept silent, Neuville watching the inky darkness to their north while Chessa gazed off to the south. Beyond the corpse strewn battlefield and the lines of orcs, the village leader could almost see the silent, dark village of Fiume in her mind, desolate but for the corpses of one old couple in a simple cottage on the northern edge of the tiny hamlet. It had been her family's home for four generations, an isolated island of tranquility struggling to survive in a mountain range full of depraved tribes of humans and orcs. Chessa had no idea how Neuville's Kingdom of Tourant would treat her displaced people, but she held out little hope that they would be treated any better than the orcs which now surrounded them. Her husband and other men of the village had seen the Tourant Lancers more and more as Tourant pushed farther into the mountains. To the Lancers, barbarians were barbarians; the race made no difference.

"I thought maybe we could sneak off of the rocks during the night," Neuville said quietly, breaking the silence. The ranger paused, glancing up to the night sky. A full moon had risen over the forest, its stark light breaking through the canopy in cold, white shafts. "It would be bright enough to keep the children together. But the Bloody Fist is creeping out onto the battlefield."

"Are they going to fight through the night?" Chessa inquired wearily.

"It doesn't look like it," the ranger answered. "I don't know what they're doing, but it doesn't seem like they're looking for a fight. Maybe collecting injured."

"Perhaps the battle will shift tomorrow," Chessa suggested, though her voice held no optimism. As she continued, she tried to push some of the dismal tone from her voice. "Perhaps then we can escape."

"Maybe," Neuville said quietly. Once more the two lapsed into silence, watching the dark forest around them. As she peered down through the trees, though, Chess could see the orcs that Neuville had mentioned. Cautiously small groups of the barbarians were creeping along the battlefield, stopping occasionally over bodies. Occasionally one or two orcs would head back for the Bloody Fist's lines, dragging a body behind them. At other times, moans of pain would abruptly cease, and the orcs would continue forward after silencing the wounded fighter. Finally, Chessa looked back over her shoulder, to the huddled refugees.

"How are they?" the woman asked, unwilling to turn to Neuville.

"Most of them are fine," Neuville answered. From where Chessa sat, she could just make out the five bodies that they had moved away from the rest of the villagers. Javelins, stones, and the occasional arrow had flown over the rocks throughout the day, and Oleg's healing magic had not been enough to save everyone. Three children and two women had died from their wounds before nightfall. The earth elemental had also claimed a life from the refugees. Chessa could still see poor Petr falling from the rocks as the ground beneath his feet had formed the elemental's body. What little was left of the boy lay almost directly below her, mangled beyond recognition by the fall and the elemental's stone fists. Neuville hesitated for a moment as the woman stared at the base of the formation before continuing. "I wish I had seen what they were doing earlier," the ranger said quietly. "I should have known what Oleksandr was up to."

Chessa looked up, silent for a moment as she considered the ranger. Neuville seemed to be looking out into the trees, but his eyes were not focused. The village leader could see traces of guilt in his expression; he likely blamed himself for bringing the children into such a dangerous situation, or at least sought absolution for a questionable course of action. Chessa would have liked nothing more than to pin the blame on him. Part of her mind even clung to the idea that they would have remained safe in Fiume, overlooked by the Cruel Blades as they rushed to war with the Bloody Fist. But Neuville's error in reading Oleksandr's movements had only been compounded by her own stubborn mistrust of the Tourant rangers. If they had left even half a day earlier, they might have been able to slip between the two tribes and escape to the east. Petr and the others that had died might still be alive.

"Maybe maybe we both should have seen it," Chessa finally said. Neuville turned back to her, pausing for a long moment as he picked up on Chessa's own remorse. Twice the ranger opened his mouth, but stopped each time in uncertainty.

"So, you were married?" the ranger asked at last, hesitantly trying to change the subject. Chessa nodded, finally looking away from the battlefield.

"I was," she replied simply. Neuville hesitated a long moment, expecting something more from the woman.

"What was his name?" he finally asked. Chessa looked back to the ranger, smiling faintly.

"Libor," she answered. Neuville's mouth dropped open. "He was named long before Libor Bloody Fist came to power."

"What are the odds?" Neuville said, stifling a laugh. He shook his head, but then quickly grew serious as he looked back to Chessa. "Sorry. About laughing about it."

"It's okay," Chessa said, a bit of a smile still on her own face. "His friends used to joke with him about the name, once we had heard of Libor Bloody Fist. And he would sometimes joke about it himself."

"He sounds like he was a good man," Neuville said.

"He was," Chessa agreed, some of her good cheer fading away at the memory of her fallen husband.

"Look, I" Neuville started awkwardly. The ranger stopped, then shook his head. "Get some rest," he tried. "Come tomorrow, we'll find a way off the rocks."

______________________________________________________

"We took the battle today. We should press the attack before the sun even rises, and drive them from the field!"

"Are you so certain of our advantage?" Ruslan asked, taking a step deeper into Oleksandr's command tent as he argued against Vlastimir's assessment. Vlastimir turned away from Oleksandr to face the chieftain's brother, line of anger creasing his already scarred face. "We have already lost Dainis," Ruslan continued, refusing to back down from the incensed orc. "He was arguably our greatest warrior. If Predrag should summon another elemental tomorrow, we may lose even more warriors."

"That is why we must strike as soon as possible!" Vlastimir countered. "Predrag has spent his spells! We must hit them before he regains his strength, or we will be slaughtered!"

"Predrag doesn't just rush off into battle!" Ruslan retorted. "He has the One Eye's vision! He will have been prepared for this!"

"Enough!" Oleksandr shouted, looking up from the maps spread across the rickety table in the center of the tent. Vlastimir and Ruslan both backed up a step in the face of their leader's anger. "The two of you bicker like women!"

"Oleksandr, we must strike before they can prepare," Vlastimir pressed, almost pleading with the chieftain. "We have more warriors, and they are eager to fight!"

"You are too eager, Vlastimir," Oleksandr said simply, glaring at the war chief. "You would send our warriors to their deaths just to rejoin the battle quickly."

Ruslan began to smile in victory, but his smile vanished as Oleksandr spun angrily on his brother.

"And you, Ruslan," the chieftain continued, "would give Predrag all the time he needs to regain his spells and prepare for us. Both of you are wrong!"

"Then what do we do?" Vlastimir asked, frustrated. Oleksandr turned back to the war chief.

"We must strike quickly, but not simply throw ourselves at the Bloody Fist," Oleksandr replied. "Predrag will be ready for us, and we must find a way to counter him.

"We attack in force with the dawn," Vlastimir suggested. "Overwhelm them before they are ready for us."

"Libor will be ready with the same strategy," Oleksandr countered. "Attacking at dawn will gain us nothing. Rather than attack, we must find a way to use Libor's morning assault against him."

"We can hide several of our number among the dead on the battlefield," Ruslan said. "Once they rush past us, we will be able to find Predrag and kill him, breaking their spirit."

"A better strategy," Oleksandr said, mulling over the prospect. "Are your men capable of such self control?"

"I know the ones that are capable," Ruslan said. "And the ones that can defeat Predrag."

"Then that is what we shall do," Oleksandr said. "Vlastimir, you will hold the line, while Ruslan finds and kills the old priest."

"It is cowardice," Vlastimir growled, voicing clear opposition to the course of action.

"It is strategy," Oleksandr countered sternly. For a moment the two orcs glared at each other, but finally Vlastimir bowed slightly. 

"As you wish," the war chief said, forcing formality into his voice despite his obvious displeasure. Without another word Vlastimir turned and pushed his way out of the tent.

"He would destroy our tribe for his own glory," Ruslan said, once Vlastimir had vanished. "He is just like Dainis."

"And you," Oleksandr said, turning to his brother, "seem far too willing to run from a fight. Perhaps you would prefer to hide in the rear with the women."

"I merely see the long term," Ruslan explained, remaining calm despite the doubts of his bravery. "We will win this fight, but how we win it is just as important. The Flayed Skull grow more powerful each day, and they too are hungry. A weakened tribe presents a tempting target."

"Kazatimiru and his tribe are inbred, cowardly morons," Oleksandr spat. "They are no threat to us."

"Slava Black Spear said the same of you, not long before we destroyed him," Ruslan pointed out. Oleksandr snarled at the mention of his one time nemesis, but could not dispute his brother's argument.

"Pick your orcs," the chieftain finally said, returning to the matter at hand. "You must make your way out onto the battlefield before it grows light enough to see."

"As you wish," Ruslan said, bowing slightly.

______________________________________________________

The moon was just setting, but as far as Thierry could tell several hours of darkness remained. The ranger had drifted in and out of sleep since the day's fighting had ended, too uncomfortable to sleep well but too exhausted to remain awake. A half dozen children were currently sharing Thierry's blankets, and Irina, curled up and pressed against the ranger's side, had claimed much of his heavy woolen cloak to ward off the chilly night. Thierry shifted slightly, trying not to wake Irina with his movement as he attempted to move into a marginally more comfortable position, but the girl's dark eyes fluttered open as the ranger pushed himself up against the rocks behind him.

"Sorry," Thierry said quietly, taking the opportunity to move off of a jagged point that had been sticking in his back for half the night. "You can go back to sleep."

Irina nodded slightly, pulling herself up closer to the ranger's chest and thankfully dragging the cloak with her. For a moment the girl closed her eyes, but then she looked up at the ranger again.

"Thierry?" she asked timidly. "Are are we going to die?"

"Of course not," Thierry said, running a hand along Irina's hair. The ranger could only hope he sounded far more confident than he felt; as long as the two tribes continued to fight each other, the refugees were relatively safe, but whichever tribe won the battle would inevitably turn on the trapped humans. Food and water were also running dangerously short, and they had only been stranded for a day on top of the rock formation. "Neuville and Chessa are already figuring a way out of here, I bet."

"Then, when we get out of here, will you teach me how to be a ranger?" Irina asked. Thierry chuckled slightly.

"You can't be a ranger," he said with a smile. "You're far too pretty for that. To be a ranger, you have to be ugly, like me and Neuville."

"Please teach me," Irina pleaded, completely ignoring the scout's joke. Thierry grew serious as he noticed the intensity in the girl's demeanor.

"How old are you?" Thierry inquired.

"Thirteen," Irina replied. "I was born in the spring."

"Maybe you should wait, just a little bit," Thierry suggested. "Once we get to Tourant, you may be sick and tired of mountains, forests, and especially orcs."

"I want to kill orcs," Irina said, her voice growing cold. Thierry hesitated for a moment as she spoke. "They killed my papa. They made my mama get sick. They always try to kill us."

"Do you see Neuville?" Thierry asked, pointing to the older ranger. Neuville was squatting at the edge of the rock formation, leaning on his double axe as he watched the ground below them intently. Irina watched the older ranger for a moment, before turning back to the younger scout. "You don't want to be like him," Thierry said. "He hasn't smiled in ten years. All he thinks about is killing orcs. Sooner or later, you become no better than they are."

"But you're a ranger," Irina pointed out. Thierry smiled.

"I'm a ranger because I'm too dumb to do anything else," the younger ranger said with a smile. "I was going to be a chandler, but me and wax just don't get along."

"Chandler?" Irina repeated, uncertain of the word. 

"A candle maker," Thierry explained. The ranger smiled for a moment as he thought back to his brief apprenticeship. "I used to get wax all over the place. All over me, all over the floor, all over my teacher"

"So they made you become a ranger?" Irina concluded, completely serious. Thierry laughed.

"No," the ranger answered with a broad smile. Irina still looked confused. "I came out west because I wanted to get away from the big city. I wanted to see the mountains. Maybe when we get to Tourant, I'll take you back where I was born. It's a long way off, and I bet it's like nothing you've ever seen."

"Like they say Bijelo Polje looks like?" Irina asked.

"Bigger than Bijelo Polje," Thierry said. "Much, much bigger, and with walls of solid stone. Thousands of people live in Lancoux, where I was born. Maybe, once summer comes, I'll take you there, and show you Rue Airain. That's the street where I was born. Brass workers and bronze workers, dozens of them. And one street over is Rue Tailluer, where you can buy any kind of clothes, of any color you can imagine. I bet we can find you a pretty dress there. What's your favorite color?"

"I like violet," Irina said, already becoming lost in her own image of Lancoux.

"Violet it is," Thierry said with a nod. "Maybe a little bit of gold trim, and a gold necklace too. And of course, you'd need a good cape, something better than these ugly, heavy brown ones."

"I can have a violet cape too?" Irina asked, her eyes lighting up. Thierry opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as he saw Neuville dropping to a crouch next to him.

"Come on," the older ranger said simply.

Thierry hesitated for a moment, but Neuville was already turning to walk away. Slowly the younger ranger unclasped his cloak and gently laid it over Irina.

"Keep my spot warm for me," he said. Irina nodded, but said nothing as the younger ranger turned to follow his ally.

Neuville was waiting for him at the edge of the formation, kneeling at the gouge where the elemental had formed. As Thierry reached him, the older ranger motioned for him to drop low.

"They're on the move," Neuville whispered, pointing to shadows moving through the trees.

"I nearly had her forgetting that she was in a war," Thierry said irritably, keeping his voice low. Neuville turned to him.

"This is a bad time to make them feel safe," he said. "We all need to remember where we are right now."

"They're kids," Thierry pointed out. "We can't treat them like a band of Tourant Lancers that we're leading through the mountains."

"We could use a band of Lancers," Neuville said. Thierry opened his mouth to spit out a retort, but thought better of it and focused on the shapes moving across the battlefield.

"Oleksandr's orcs?" the younger ranger inquired.

"As far as I know," Neuville confirmed. "Libor's troops were out earlier, dragging some bodies back to their lines. I don't know what Oleksandr's up to, though. They don't seem intent on starting a fight, at least not now. I don't even think they're getting as far as Libor's lines. I can't figure out what they're doing."

"Whatever they're doing, they're not bothering us," Thierry said, dropping back from the edge. Neuville nodded, pausing for a long moment as he too moved back from the lip of the formation.

"If we get another night like this tomorrow, we have to make a run for it," the older ranger said. Thierry considered the simple statement, his eyes on the rocks where he sat.

"There's a chance we'll lose some children," Thierry remarked quietly. "Or that they'll see us, and run us down."

"You and I both know that if we stay up here, whichever tribe wins is going to finish us," Neuville said, echoing the younger ranger's unspoken concerns. "If we get a good night, we have to run."

"Then let's hope they wear themselves out fighting come morning," Thierry said grimly.


	12. Escape

**XI**

"Did you get much sleep?"

"Some," Neuville replied quietly, not taking his eyes from the forest below him as he sat on the edge of the boulders. In the dull predawn gray, the trees to their east sat silent and still, but the ranger was still uneasy at the mere thought of crossing that terrain. While they were on the eastern edge of the orcs' battlefield, and safety seemed to be almost within reach, Neuville could see orcish pickets from both sides in easy striking distance of the refugees' path to freedom. Unless the two tribes were directly engaged in combat, the humans would be too easy a target for either side to allow an escape. Neuville took one last glance at the dim forest ahead of them, then turned back to Chessa. "How about you?" the ranger inquired as the woman dropped to one knee next to him.

"I got enough," Chessa replied, carefully placing her short bow on the ground next to her. Only three arrows remained in the young woman's quiver; the refugees would have precious little arrow cover if they did have to make a run for it. The two sat in silence as Neuville returned to his deliberations on how to move the refugees. "Maybe today the battle will move enough to let us escape," Chessa finally suggested, though it sounded far more like an attempt to break the silence than a true hope.

"Maybe," Neuville said, though he truly doubted such a thing would happen. Libor and Oleksandr had already locked themselves into their current battlefield; the only movement would be if one attempted to flank the other, and such moves only seemed to bring the refugees deeper inside the battle lines. Again the pair lapsed into silence, watching the sky as it began to brighten on the eastern horizon.

"We need to find a way out of here," Chessa finally said, voicing what the ranger already knew. "They will not simply ignore us forever. If the battle ends today, we will be dead by nightfall."

"We will take the first opening we see," Neuville promised quietly. The ranger looked at Chessa's bare quiver again. "No arrows unless there is no other way to kill the orc. If Irina has any left, take her arrows from her, as well."

"I'll check with her," Chessa said quietly. She hesitated a moment, looking at the eastern horizon. "Sun's about to rise."

"Then the fight's going to start soon," Neuville commented. "Take the south end again, and have Thierry take the edge between us."

Chessa nodded without a word, then carefully stood and shouldered her short bow. For a moment the woman remained where she was, then turned to Neuville.

"Good luck," she said quietly.

"Stay alive," Neuville said. "Your people are going to need you when we finally get out of here."

Chessa nodded once more, then turned to the southern end of the rocks.

* * *

"Everything is ready?"

"Yes, everyone is in place," Vlastimir replied, balancing his huge axe on his shoulder as he followed Oleksandr just behind the battle lines. Spread out through the trees and waiting for the sunrise, every combat capable orc in Oleksandr's tribe waited eagerly for the coming dawn. "The center of the battle line is purposely thin, and will give way under Libor's assault with ease."

"Good," Oleksandr said, scanning the no man's land between the two armies. Hundreds of bodies were still scattered across the previous day's battlefield, but during the night Ruslan's advance force had also crept into place near the Bloody Fist's lines and were now disguised among the dead. "With any luck, the battle will be finished by midday," Oleksandr mused. "Then the way to Bijelo Polje will be clear."

Vlastimir nodded in wordless agreement, hoping only that the fight would begin soon. The Bloody Fist was a smaller tribe, even if not by much, but every second that Oleksandr delayed gave Predrag more time to prepare in the new war chief's eyes. The earth elemental that Dainis had defeated was not the only being the old priest could call upon, and Predrag's lethal capabilities did not end at merely summoning creatures from the ground. The sooner the two tribes rejoined the battle, the happier Vlastimir would be.

The war chief needed only to wait another second for his battle lust to be satisfied, however. As the first rays of sunlight broke over the eastern ridges, the Bloody Fist orcs rose from their lines with a roar, charging forward with their weapons raised. Vlastimir's dark eyes lit with an eager fire as he pulled his axe from his shoulder and strode forward, ready to meet his bloodthirsty enemies head to head at the weakest point of the line.

"Cruel Blades, to your feet!" the war chief bellowed, his voice carrying across the lines. Instantly the orcs around him leapt into fighting crouches, baring tusks and hefting weapons as they braced for the Bloody Fist charge. "Ready javelins!" Vlastimir ordered. The orcs obeyed as one around him, pulling javelins from the groups of weapons jammed point first into the ground. Dozens of arms cocked back as the Bloody Fist's berserkers raced towards them, but not a single shaft was loosed as Vlastimir waited for Libor's forces to close to point blank range. "Release!"

Vlastimir's orcs wasted no time in loosing their javelins. The Bloody Fist orcs threw what shields they had up to try to deflect the worst of the assault, but the first volley took a heavy toll on the berserkers. Even as the Bloody Fist's vanguard fell to the javelin volley, however, the second rank stormed forward with renewed cries of bloodlust as they clambered over their fallen comrades. Eagerly the Cruel Blade orcs drew their hand weapons and surged forward in reply, slamming head on into the Bloody Fist.

Behind the battle, almost three dozen orcs rose from their concealment and turned on the unprotected Bloody Fist leaders.

* * *

"The battle goes well. Oleksandr's line already falters."

"Too easy," Libor said quietly, more to himself than to the guard standing next to him. Despite the sentry's confident tone, something bothered the Bloody Fist chieftain as he watched Ondrej lead his orcs into battle. At the fore of his berserkers, Ondrej fought with a rage and brutality that made Libor proud to call the orc his war chief, but even Ondrej's matchless ferocity should not have been enough to cave the Cruel Blade lines so easily. Libor could almost feel some sort of trap closing around his warriors, but for the moment he could not tell the direction of the danger.

"They fight as true warriors in the One Eye's sight," Predrag remarked, standing next to the chieftain. "They will bring great glory to our tribe in his vision."

"Do you see us victorious, Predrag?" Libor asked, turning to the old priest.

"The One Eye favors no orc with such vision," Predrag answered, "but he does smile upon the bravery and strength of your soldiers."

"I hope you're right," Libor said, turning back to the raging battle in front of him. "Something feels wrong about this."

No sooner had Libor finished his statement than cries of alarm went up along the thinly guarded Bloody Fist camp. The chieftain barely had time to react before a pair of javelins had slammed into the sentry standing next to him, dropping the warrior before he could raise his shield to deflect the blows. Seemingly rising from the dead on the battlefield, a cadre of Cruel Blade orcs was suddenly advancing on the Bloody Fist camp, moving with deadly efficiency as they ripped through the first guards. At the Cruel Blades' lead, Libor instantly recognized the heavily scarred orc hacking his way through the stunned Bloody Fist guards with a huge double axe as Oleksandr's own half brother, Ruslan.

"We are under attack!" Libor shouted, quickly trying to rally his remaining soldiers around him. Beyond the immediate threat of Ruslan and his raiders, the Bloody Fist chieftain could see the Cruel Blade tribe quickly beginning to surround his own warriors. "Rally on me and kill the Cruel Blades!"

Libor's orders, however, seemed to come too late. Four guards tried to band together and fall back to their chieftain, but Ruslan and his men overran them and tore them to pieces. Another four raiders loosed javelins on a fifth guard, dropping the orc before he could hurl a javelin of his own. All around him, Libor saw his men falling to the enemy while his main force was quickly being engulfed.

"We are losing!" Libor snapped, turning furiously on Predrag. The old priest simply gave the chieftain a distracted half smile as he studied the field of battle with his one good eye.

"Perhaps," the old priest said, his smile growing faintly. "Perhaps not."

* * *

"We have them!"

"Do not slow!" Ruslan ordered, sparing a sideways glance to Mislav as they pressed the attack. The younger orc's face was lit with a broad smile as he raced forward, heading for Libor and Predrag at the center of their crumbling perimeter. Behind them Oleksandr's trap was working to perfection, but the chieftain's half brother was well aware of the hard fight ahead of him and his hand picked team. Libor and Predrag were two of the most dangerous orcs in the Khairathi Mountains, and could still turn the tide of battle if they were given a chance to regroup. Libor was already gathering what was left of his personal guard for a final stand, wearing a look of desperation as he rallied his orcs, but the tracker was far more concerned with the faint smile spreading across Predrag's face. "Take the priest! Take him now!"

Ruslan's orcs moved quickly to obey their leader, but already it was too late. Predrag rammed the tip of his spear into the ground in front of him, sending a line of vermilion flames racing across the ground towards his enemies. The lead orc was engulfed in a pillar of fire as the incendiary line reached him, incinerating the warrior before he could so much as scream in pain. Three more orcs charged past their immolated comrade, but before they could gain a step Predrag bellowed out an order to stop. One orc froze in his tracks, seized by the priest's magical power, but the other two continued to race forward. Ruslan pushed himself forward for all he was worth, praying that his two comrades would reach Predrag before the old priest could cast another spell.

The two orcs did indeed reach Predrag, though they had no chance to attack as a wall of spinning blades appeared directly in front of them. The two warriors were quickly torn to shreds by the impassable blade barrier. Ruslan had no more time to worry about Predrag, however, as he suddenly found Libor bearing down on him.

The Bloody Fist chieftain descended on him with a roar of rage, lunging forward almost recklessly with his broad bladed spear. Ruslan dodged sideways and countered, thinking that his foe had left his entire flank open, but even as the tracker's double axe spun back to take the leader's head from his shoulders Libor ducked low and slammed his shoulder into Ruslan's gut. The tracker stumbled backwards, gasping for breath as he fought to keep his balance in the face of the brutal assault. Libor gave his foe no time to recover; bellowing in bloodlust, the berserk chieftain brought his foot up in a devastating kick that connected squarely with the doubled over Ruslan's jaw, launching the tracker into the air and dropping him flat on his back on the rocky ground. The tracker's double axe dropped out of his grip as swirls of color blinded his sight, leaving Ruslan certain that Libor would strike the killing blow before he could even land a hit of his own.

Blood sprayed out over Ruslan's face, but it was not his own. As the tracker's sight cleared he saw Libor wrenching his spear free of Mislav's shoulder, dropping the body of the younger orc over Ruslan as he whirled on another foe. Forgotten for a moment by the Bloody Fist chieftain, Ruslan quickly tried to appraise the battle. Where his strike team had originally met with amazing success, Ruslan now found his orcs dead or dying all around him, felled by Libor's insane battle frenzy or Predrag's brutal flame strikes and a pair of demonic tigers that now flanked the ancient priest. Only four of Ruslan's orcs were still alive, and they were already retreating before the small band of Bloody Fist warriors that Libor had brought together. Without any other alternatives, Ruslan pulled himself out from under his one time protég's body and hurried back to his own lines, hoping that Predrag would not unleash another flame strike on him as he ran.

* * *

"Get them up. Get them up now!"

"I hope they don't look left," Thierry commented, glancing down over the edge of the rocks. "They're not giving us a lot of room."

"It's all the room we can hope for," Neuville said, stepping back from the edge and turning to the refugees. Thierry was right about not being given a lot of room, but the frenzied battle that had moved just south of the boulders was the best shot at escape that Neuville could hope for. Behind him, Chessa and Oleg quickly roused the rest of the villagers, forcing them awake and to the edge of the rocks as the older ranger judged their route of escape. "We have to move now. If the Bloody Fist falls back so much as a few yards we'll be overrun and killed. Oleg, are we ready yet?"

"We are as ready as we will ever be," Oleg replied, holding a little girl in one arm and his great axe in the other.

"Then everyone down the rocks!" Neuville shouted, taking the lead as he moved to the northeastern lip of the boulders. The ranger half ran and half jumped to the base of the jumble, turning back quickly to help the refugees to the ground. Thierry skidded down the rock next to him and quickly moved forward, an arrow ready to fire should the orcs discover their escape and give chase. While the boulders blocked the large majority of the battle from sight, the screams of bloodlust and pain were still extremely close; one shift in the battle could kill everyone. "Come on, hurry!" the ranger shouted, trying to get the refugees to move even faster. Finally Chessa jumped to the ground, and turned to the ranger.

"That's everyone," the woman said. She pointed with the tip of her bow to the east. "Get us out of here."

"Everyone runs," Neuville said. He looked back over the terrified children. "Everyone runs!" he ordered. "You stay right behind me and keep running until I say otherwise!"

Neuville turned and rushed forward without another look back, counting on Thierry, Chessa, and Oleg to keep the children from falling too far behind. To the refugees' right, the main armies of both orcish tribes were engaged in an insanely chaotic battle, ripping each other apart with fiendish efficiency as they remained oblivious to the escaping humans. To Neuville's left the rocks blocked much of his view, but he could see another fight taking place as Libor's command post viciously repulsed a small, rapidly disintegrating cadre of Cruel Blade warriors. Libor Bloody Fist himself stood in plain sight, a true demon of battle as he ripped through the Cruel Blade warriors that had dared to attack him, but Neuville's awe of the tribal leader's devastating rage was tempered by the appearance of a barrier of whirling blades and flashes of malignant vermilion fire erupting out of the rocky ground. Still, Predrag himself, the most likely source of such devastating magic, was not yet in view, and Neuville whispered a silent prayer to Pelor that the ancient and deadly priest would not notice their escape.

The ranger's fears came true before he could even finish his prayer. Standing in the middle of his blade barrier, Predrag turned to the ranger and seemed to look directly into Neuville's eyes, and a smile began to spread across the cleric's hideously scarred face. Neuville forced himself to run even faster as he turned back to the forest, expecting another flame strike or some other spectacular and lethal spell from Predrag, but after several seconds had gone by the ranger was still intact and running. Neuville hazarded another glance over his shoulder, slowing on the faintest bit to keep from tripping, just in time to see Predrag point to something ahead of him with that smile still in place.

"Neuville!" Thierry suddenly shouted. The ranger's eyes snapped back to the path in front of him at his companion's warning shout. Just ahead of the ranger, over a dozen and a half orcs, all bearing fatal wounds and grotesque injuries, lumbered through the trees towards the refugees. Neuville skidded to a halt as he wracked his brains for a plan, trying to find a way around the steadily closing zombies; already children were starting to scream in horror at the abominations ahead of them, and within seconds it seemed as though the tiny band would scatter and be torn apart piecemeal by the battle's victors. Quickly Neuville regained his composure and hefted his double axe, ready to carve a path through the zombies ahead of him.

Oleg suddenly shoved his way past the ranger, his great axe held loosely in one hand as he strode towards the undead orcs. Although the zombies were quickly beginning to converge on the old priest, Oleg did not even slow as he brought a crude wooden disk to bear in his right hand.

"Oleg, get back!" Neuville shouted, certain that the old priest would be torn to pieces by the fallen orcs. Instead of heeding his companion's advice, Oleg increased his pace, practically pushing his way into the middle of the throng of zombies.

"In the name of Lord Pelor the Shining One, I command you to return to your graves!" the old priest boomed out, his powerful voice carrying over the clamor of the battle. Neuville and Thierry started after the priest, but stopped suddenly as a half dozen of the closest zombies burst into brilliant golden flames. The lead zombies' sudden incineration bought the priest and his companions precious moments, but the rest of the undead, ignorant of fear, marched mindlessly on Oleg as he turned to command a second group of the fallen orcs to stay back.

Neuville and Thierry hit the zombies on the right as Oleg forced back the zombies to the left, pushing forward with all their might. Neuville's double axe took one zombie's head from its shoulders as Thierry sliced his way through a second, but suddenly the fallen orcs were fleeing from Oleg's presence as the half orc turned his god's might on the undead berserkers.

"Now, Chessa!" Oleg commanded, glancing back over his shoulder to the village leader and the refugees. "Lead them through now!"

"Great job, Oleg!" Thierry exclaimed, patting the old priest on the shoulder as a broad smile lit his face. Neuville wanted to share his partner's elation, but his view was quickly drawn back to the Bloody Fist's leadership.

He was just in time to see a line of vermilion flames streaking across the ground on a path for Oleg.

* * *

"Ruslan has failed!"

"We still hold the advantage," Oleksandr observed calmly as he watched the battle progress before him. Standing with Vlastimir just behind the fray, Oleksandr could not see what had become of his half brother, but Ruslan's failure to remove Predrag and Libor had infuriated the chieftain enough to almost hope that the tracker had been killed. Still, the battle was far from lost; quite the contrary, the Cruel Blades had managed to flank the Bloody Fist warriors on both the right and the left, and were slowly beginning to crush the enemy tribe between the two forces. The precious time that Predrag had been forced to spend fighting off Ruslan's cadre had bought the Cruel Blades' main force enough time to wreak considerable damage against Libor's forces. "Libor will never be able to recover quickly enough. Lead them in, Vlastimir. No one survives."

"As you wish," Vlastimir said, his anxiety at Ruslan's failure replaced by his eagerness to rejoin the battle. The war chief surged forward into the lines with a brutal swing of his great axe, but Oleksandr was already looking back to the wounded Bloody Fist command post. Ruslan's cadre was either dead or retreating to the Cruel Blade lines, but still Predrag seemed preoccupied with something other than the battle at hand. The chieftain followed the old priest's line of sight to the east, and smiled slightly as he saw what had captured his foe's attention. The humans that had been trapped overnight on the rocks were desperately trying to escape, fighting their way through undead orcs that had been meant to flank his warriors.

"It seems you have done your job well, after all," Oleksandr said with a smirk as a blast of flame struck one of the humans. "Keep the old priest distracted while I finish his warriors."

Oleksandr watched a second longer, his smile growing faintly wider as a trio of demonic hounds, another of Predrag's summonings, raced across the rocky ground at the hapless humans. Every spell Predrag wasted on those weaklings was a spell he could not cast against the Cruel Blades, and the chieftain finally found himself appreciating Ruslan's well laid plan to use the humans as a shield.

Oleksandr watched the humans for another moment, taking a moment to admire the demonic hounds as they ripped into one of the refugees, but the chieftain's attention was quickly drawn back to his warriors as screams of pain and terror rose along the lines. Oleksandr's smile disappeared completely as he saw Predrag's latest conjuration, and for a brief instant fear that the battle was lost entered the half orc's heart. Predrag had truly outdone himself this time. Striding into the battle, ripping Cruel Blade orcs apart two and three at a time as it bought Libor's warriors time to retreat, a huge, spidery demon had singlehandedly turned the tide of the battle against the Cruel Blades and their leader. 

* * *

The blast of flame had ripped out of the ground and exploded around Oleg in a heartbeat, but Thierry could barely spare a glance to the old half orc as the battle suddenly crashed down on the refugees. The younger ranger turned back to the Bloody Fist lines in time to see three terrifying hounds racing towards the refugees, bounding along the air almost a foot over the rocky terrain. Swords drawn, Thierry quickly moved to intercept the hounds, but the first monster's baying howl was enough to freeze his blood in his veins. For a long, horrifying moment the hounds' baying transfixed the ranger, holding him perfectly still in the face of the rapidly closing demons.

"Move it, Thierry!" Neuville snapped, shouldering through the younger ranger on his way to meet the demonic hounds. His partner's order and the rough contact was enough to pull Thierry out of his paralysis, but already the situation was unraveling at a frightening pace. The hounds' baying had sent the refugees into a panic, and already the children were scattering through the forest. Oleg was thankfully staggering back to his feet, but the old half orc would never be in time to meet the new rush of the orcish zombies closing from the east. Even Irina had seemingly disappeared into the mess of panicking villagers. Only Chessa had seemed to maintain any degree of control as she tried desperately to hold her charges together.

"To me! To me! Come to me!" Thierry screamed out, praying that the refugees would hear him and heed the call. The ranger snagged one small boy before he could race headlong into the two orcish tribes still locked in frenzied battle, hurling him towards Chessa and whirling immediately to grab another before the child could throw herself into the path of the hounds. Chessa quickly began to follow the ranger, collecting the children as Thierry rushed through the forest, holding them together by force of will and strong shoves toward a central point. The hounds' baying was now on top of the villagers, but Neuville added a furious roar of his own to the cacophony as his double axe slammed down on the lead demon. The lead demon crumpled to the ground, its bays turning into a pitiful whimper, even as the other two flying canines slammed into Neuville and dragged him to the ground. Already overburdened by the children surrounding him, Thierry would never reach his partner before the hounds tore him to pieces.

Oleg was on them suddenly, his great axe slamming through one of the monsters and throwing it clear of the older ranger, while a shining golden mace, floating alongside the old priest, pushed the final hound away from the badly mauled Neuville. The old priest kept after the two hounds as Neuville dragged himself away from the battle, roaring in berserker rage as he slammed away again and again at the demonic hounds. With the children corralled and once again kept in line by Chessa, Thierry rushed to Neuville's side as the older ranger tried to get back to his feet.

"Neuville, are you all right?" the younger ranger asked as he steadied his partner.

"He's a hell of a warrior," Neuville commented, ignoring his partner's question as he watched Oleg swing his axe in another brutal arc. Even badly burned from Predrag's flame strike, the old half orc was more than a match for the two remaining hounds, driving them back with each sweeping slash of his huge weapon.

"Guess he still remembers how to be a berserker," Thierry remarked, awed by the old man's skill and brute strength.

"Neuville! Thierry!" Chessa suddenly shouted, her voice carrying a clear note of desperation. The village leader and her charges were now surrounded by undead orcs as the zombies pressed mindlessly through them, chopping through the humans in their slow, steady push to the main battle raging to the south. Neuville and Thierry both charged in headlong, their weapons crashing down on the slain berserkers as they fought their way to the battered refugees' side.

A familiar scream caught Thierry's attention. The ranger spun quickly to his right, in time to see Irina quickly losing her fight against two stubborn, hammer wielding zombies that were pushing her inexorably back towards the boulders. Behind Irina, another two children, neither older than five, were already beginning to run back onto the orcish battlefield to escape the undead warriors.

"Neuville!" Thierry shouted, trying to gain his partner's attention as he fought off more of the undead. The older ranger glanced over his shoulder, but was quickly forced to return his attention to his own battle against the zombies threatening the mass of refugees.

"You get them!" Neuville directed sharply. Thierry nodded, and raced off without a moment of hesitation. The younger ranger shouldered his way through one zombie and sprinted into the open field, closing with every ounce of speed he could muster on Irina and her opponents. It only took a second for the ranger to reach the three combatants, charging into one of the two zombies and ramming both of his swords through one zombie's back. Using his momentum, Thierry pivoted and whipped his foe off of his blades, but before he could turn on the second one the zombie finally broke through Irina's faltering defenses. Thierry took the head from the undead orc's shoulder even as its hammer crashed down on the girl's shoulder, dropping her to the ground an instant before it too was slain.

"Irina!" Thierry exclaimed, dropping to the ground next to the battered girl. Irina was conscious, but only barely, and her shoulder had been crushed under the force of the zombie's blow.

"Stannes… Kasia…" Irina murmured, practically delirious from the pain of her injuries. Theirry glanced up quickly, and saw the two children Irina had been protecting stumbling out into the open. Already several orcs were beginning to take notice of the undefended targets.

"You stay here and don't move," Thierry ordered, gently brushing the girl's hair from her eyes. Without another moment to lose Thierry was up and running again, sheathing his swords as he raced out onto the battlefield after the two children.

The first javelin nearly skewered him as he rushed into full sight of the two tribes, but Thierry pushed on stubbornly to the two children. The ranger caught Stannes, the boy, first grabbing him by one arm and dragging him along for almost three paces before he finally lifted the boy's legs clear of the ground. The girl, Kasia, seemed not to recognize Thierry at first, as she screamed in terror and ran even farther out into the battlefield.

"Kasia, get over here!" Thierry bellowed, still racing after the child. Three more javelins slammed into the ground around him and another nearly impaled Kasia, turning the girl left and straight towards the bloodiest part of the battle. Thierry angled quickly and cut her off, snatching the girl only seconds before another javelin hit the ground where she had been standing. Without another second to lose the ranger turned himself back to the refugees and poured the last of his stamina into a dead sprint, trying to get out of the orcs' range before they could throw another volley.

One javelin skipped across the back of his leg, tearing a line of pain along his calf, but Thierry somehow made it back to the refugees with little more than that injury. Oleg was already with Irina, casting a hasty spell to heal the worst of the damage to her shoulder, while Neuville and Chessa fought off the last of the orcish zombies. As the younger ranger stumbled back to the others, Oleg stood and turned to him.

"Are you badly hurt?" the half orc asked, helping Thierry lower the two children to the ground.

"I'll live," Thierry answered, glancing down to the wound on the back of his calf. While it was painful and bled freely, it was barely worth stopping for in the middle of such a battle. "How is Irina?"

"I have done the best I can for now," Oleg replied. "She will survive. We must move now, while we have the opportunity."

Thierry glanced back to the others, and found that Oleg was right. While a handful of orcish zombies still stubbornly fought on against Neuville and Chessa, most of the undead legion was now locked in combat with the Cruel Blade forces to the southwest. Oleksandr, too busy trying to fight back against the demonic monstrosity that had opened huge holes in his ranks, was far too busy with the affair at hand to worry about the humans, while Predrag and Libor had now turned that full rage and might against the reeling Cruel Blades.

"I guess we can thank Pelor that they hate each other more than they hate us," Thierry said, looking back to the old priest. The old priest shrugged, but said nothing as Neuville dropped back to the pair.

"Let's get going, now," the older ranger directed, echoing Oleg's sentiments.

"You mean, you don't want to stick around and see who wins?" Thierry asked, a smirk coming to his face.

"Now," Neuville reiterated curtly, already turning back to the rest of the refugees.

"I was just checking," Thierry called after his partner.


	13. Epilogue

** Epilogue**

It had taken them three more grueling days to reach the tiny logging settlement of Auxonne. Another day of heavy rains had sapped what little strength they had left, and Neuville had kept the remaining thirty-nine refugees moving at full speed until they had put several miles between themselves and the bloody orcish battles behind them. But finally, they had reached the Tourant border; Auxonne, a tiny community of three dozen or so stone and wood buildings nestled along a gentle, relatively clear rise, sat against a picturesque backdrop of low hills and dense forests of spruce and the majestic, tall pines that were so prized by the coastal shipbuilders in the early afternoon sun. They had lost seventeen villagers along the way, but now they would be safe.

"I appreciate your difficulties, Neuville, but I don't have the supplies or the space to look after these people."

"You don't have the space?" Neuville repeated, astounded by the remark. Montague, the leader of the logging village of Auxonne, tried to open his mouth to speak, but the ranger continued before he could begin. "You're on the frontier! You have hundreds of miles of space!"

"Then let them find their home somewhere farther away, then," Roche, the default leader of Auxonne's twenty man militia, stated coldly. The hulking logger had come out with Montague to meet Neuville and the refugees when they had first reached the settlement, and now Neuville could only be thankful that their current conversation was out of earshot of the surviving refugees. "They are barbarians," Roche continued, "and we don't want them here."

"They're women and children!" Neuville practically shouted, stunned by his countrymen's callous attitudes.

"They're probably the same ones that raided us last fall, and killed Arnaud and Gaspard!" Roche countered, raising his own voice.

"That's enough, Roche," Montague put in, more to defuse a fight than to dispute the militia leader's groundless accusation. Roche turned an icy glare on Neuville, but said nothing more. "I don't want to see these poor refugees left to fend for themselves any more than you do, Neuville," the town leader started again. "But, to ask me to take in people that have orcish blood-"

"They're not orcish!" Neuville interrupted furiously. "They're human!"

"Yes, the priest looks totally human to me," Roche observed, his words dripping with malicious sarcasm.

"Roche, may I have a word with our ranger companion alone for a moment?" Montague requested. Roche hesitated for a long moment, then spat on the ground in front of Neuville and walked back to the cluster of stone and wood homes set slightly farther up the hill. Montague watched the man go for a long moment, then turned back to Neuville.

"Honestly, I don't want to just throw them back to the wolves," the town leader said.

"Then give them a place to stay," Neuville countered.

"It's not that easy," Montague said, throwing his hands up in frustration as he looked back to Chessa, Oleg, and the rest of the refugees. "They are mountain barbarians. We've been raided by humans, orcs, and every kind of half breed in between. I have seventy-seven people here, and not one of them trusts your refugees for a heartbeat. They don't speak our language and they have their own barbaric rituals. I mean, I can't have people drinking wolf blood to take on the spirit of the wolf during some kind of lunatic hunt through our logging tracts."

"You're really something, you know that Montague?" Neuville growled out. The ranger spun angrily on his heel, ready to return to the refugees. "To the hells with you. All of you!"

"Neuville, wait," Montague called out. Neuville stopped, and turned back to the town leader. "I… I'll find a place for them. There's an area to our north that we just logged last summer. The stumps are still there, but… well, they can maybe pitch their tents there, at least until this summer. It's the best I can do for them."

"Thank you," Neuville said, exasperated. The ranger turned again and walked slowly back to the refugees. Thierry moved out ahead of the exhausted women and children, meeting Neuville a dozen yards ahead of them.

"That was a long conversation," the younger ranger observed, a faintly nervous tone to his voice.

"We have to move them to the north of the village," Neuville said. "There's a clearing there, where they logged last year. Chessa can set up camp there."

"They can't live in Auxonne?" Thierry inquired as Chessa and Oleg joined the pair. Neuville inhaled slowly, holding his frustration in check.

"They do not trust us," Oleg concluded, speaking the Khairathi language.

"They don't," Neuville agreed reluctantly.

"I expected as much," Oleg said with slight nod. "Like some others, they see an orc with these people, and expect the worst."

Neuville hesitated for a moment, wondering if the priest was pointing to his own initial reaction to Oleg, but Chess spoke before the ranger could think of voicing his own questions.

"They won't help us at all?" the young woman asked. "They'll just leave us in that clearing with nothing?"

"I'll… talk to them again," Neuville said. Chessa dropped her head in frustration. "If nothing else, Thierry and I will stay here until your new village is raised," the ranger put in quickly. Thierry turned a surprised glance to his partner. "I promised that you would be safe here, and I'm not going to let these ignorant bastards change that."

"Thank you," Chessa said, forcing a smile onto her face. The young woman turned back to her charges, readying them to move one last time. As Chessa began to round up the children, Oleg turned to the two rangers.

"We do appreciate what you have done for us," the old priest said, speaking near flawless Tourant. Neuville's jaw dropped.

"You… speak Tourant?" Thierry asked, astounded.

"I was acolyte to a Tourant priest," Oleg pointed out. "I do not know why my knowledge of your language should surprise you so."

"Montague and Roche will love having you as the translator," Neuville said, shaking his head. "The only one that speaks both languages is the half orc."

"I'm sure that, in time, they'll come to realize that we are no different from them," Oleg said. Then he too turned to help Chessa with her villagers.

"We're going to stay and help them?" Thierry asked, turning to his partner.

"They need help, and I don't fully trust Roche yet with them," Neuville said.

"I hope the marquis sees things your way," Thierry remarked.

"To the hells with the marquis, if Montague is following his policy," Neuville spat. "And if Montague isn't following his policy, the marquis will understand why we stayed.

"Just seems odd to see you siding with the or cove the human," Thierry said with a ghost of a smile.

"He's half orc," Neuville pointed out, referring to Oleg.

"I'm sure you thought that when we first brought Irina to his door," Thierry said. The older ranger paused for a long moment, unable to refute his partner's statement. "Come on," Thierry prompted. "We have a lot of work that you just volunteered us to do."

* * *

The last rays of the sun fell through the western windows of the temple, but the brilliant rays of the spring sun seemed to die as they traveled through the gloom of the temple of Grummsh. The temple's true illumination came from the smoldering braziers surrounding the huge Idol of Grummsh set in the center of the otherwise bare room, its one eye glimmering in the angry glow of the coals.

Libor knelt once more in front of the idol, his spear laid out before him as he kissed the stone floor at the One Eye's feet. After every battle, no matter how small or large, the chieftain of the Bloody Fist could be found in front of the idol, lost in prayer for hours on end in solitude.

Rather than committing himself to prayers of thanks, however, Libor found himself troubled by the outcome of his tribe's battle against the Cruel Blades and their scheming leader, Oleksandr. The Bloody Fist had finally emerged victorious after two days of battle, but the victory had exacted a heavy toll on Libor's fine warriors. Even as he prayed for the souls of those who had fallen to join the One Eye in his glorious feast halls, the chieftain worried that the three dozen or so young orcs who would join the ranks during the coming summer was not enough to replace all of the casualties. Likewise, while Oleksandr had been forced to retreat from the battle and admit defeat, the half orc's tribe had not been broken. Oleksandr would never forget such a slight to his pride, and Libor doubted it would be more than a year before their two tribes met again in battle. Such a vengeful enemy was doubly dangerous; when they met again, Libor worried that the outcome would destroy both tribes.

"Father of All, One Eye Who Never Sleeps, favor your servant in this time of uncertainty," Libor prayed, turning his eyes to the idol in front of him. "We who fight for your name invoke you, protect us from the unbelievers and those who would use your name for their own advance. Guide our spears in combat, that we may strike swiftly and unerringly. I thank you for your guidance and our victory over the bastard half breed that leads them. Now I ask you guide us to this coming season of battle, that we may glorify you in combat once again."

His simple prayer finished, Libor stood slowly, taking up his spear once more. With the heavy rains of spring, the summer would be a bountiful one. The humans would once more push west from their kingdom. Elves would once again journey west through their forest called Argent. Dwarves and goblins alike would take precious metals from the mountains.

And the Bloody Fist would lay claim to them all, in the One Eye's glorious war.

**Afterword****, Or, The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Molson…**

When I first began this story, it was a simple premise. The idea from the Dungeon Master's Guide was _Two__ orc tribes wage a bloody war_. So I threw human village into the middle of it, and there we had it. Instant plot, instant terror(for the villagers, anyway), instant job for a pair of rangers that don't like orcs. It was supposed to be a slam dunk story, one that would take maybe three months from start to finish because of the simplicity of the whole thing.

Boy, was I wrong.

I quickly found myself painted into a corner on a couple of occasions, but I did manage to get myself out of the holes I had dug for myself. I finally installed a new game on my computer, and suddenly I was devoting a lot of time to leveling up a character on _Dark Age of Camelot_. I also found myself having to devote much more time to the orcs, as Oleksandr the Cruel and especially Libor Bloody Fist captured my imagination as wonderful characters who had come to life in their own right. But finally, last November, I had decided to come back to writing, and I had ripped through a marvelous display of absolutely sick priestly power when Predrag took on a bunch of orcish raiders and used every spell in the book to make himself a god of battle.

And then, in December, my computer's hard drive died, taking with it an almost completed chapter eleven.

And in January, my brand new Dell's hard drive crashed in the same exact, unforgiving way.

The end result is, I hope, passable, but this story suffered horribly from the two hard drive crashes. While I would have loved to recapture the brilliant spark that had written Predrag's romp over Ruslan and his cadre, it was long gone, and I am left with something that just doesn't sit quite right. Still, the story needed closure, and hopefully this has done so well enough to let me forgive technology for killing the first version.

Finally, I hope anyone that writes an orc in the future will take into consideration the fact that they can be powerful villains, not just something you throw out in order to break up the monotony of wandering around through the forest and a chance to get enough experience to reach level two. They have the potential to make amazing villains, and I feel I only scratched the surface of Libor's religious fanaticism, Oleksandr's cunning, and Ruslan's cautious determination. It is quite possible that these characters may make another appearance, possibly against Neuville and Thierry, or perhaps against the elves of Argent of even the dwarves of Arnheim, but in the meantime all I can say is, they aren't chaotic evil because the _Monster Manual_ said they were.


End file.
